


A Series of Requests

by thegrumblingirl



Series: More of a Personal Statement [7]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cupcakes, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poetry, Songfic, Tumblr Prompt, fic requests, silly things and horrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 48,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is really just a small series of fic requests I've been taking over at tumblr, for your entertainment. Well, I say small...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request by anon on tumblr: "sex pollen 00Q? or just that Q gets drugged somehow and Bond has to take care of him."

“And this is why we don’t let you out of Whitehall,” Bond snarked as he tightened the hold of his arm around Q’s waist, keeping him steady as he unlocked his flat and then hurled them both inside.

“’s really not my fault,” Q managed; and he was right. It wasn’t his fault that they’d had to abandon their lunch and chase a target through Berlin on their night off. Really, it was M Bond was just about ready to strangle. One, for giving them the evening off and then calling them back on at the slightest disturbance, and two, for using Q as bait in a bar and confining Bond to the figurative broom closet (the surveillance van).

They had got their man alright, and when Q had come stumbling out while the target was being bundled out of the dingy men’s room by his collar, he’d mumbled, “I had to let him lace my drink.”

James had sighed, propped him up against the side of the van so he wouldn’t fall flat on his face. “Of course you did.”

After they had figured out it was nothing worse than your standard GHB, Bond had gotten the all-clear to catch the next flight to London. Now, with Q still astonishingly conscious but hanging off his shoulder at a very uncomfortable angle, Bond was this close to regretting some of the life choices he’d made lately.

“Come on, then,” he groused, sitting Q down on the bed and taking off his glasses, then the coat, jumper, shoes, and trousers before giving him a slight push so he’d lie down. “D’you want something to eat before you fall asleep?”

“Nnpfh,” Q articulated into the pillows.

“OK.” He turned to make some toast anyway, but a flailing arm caught his attention and, shortly after, a surprisingly strong hand caught his wrist.

“J’st.. stay ’ere,” came another mumble.

James sighed in defeat and removed his coat and jacket, then sat on the edge of the bed to chuck his shoes. “Really, the things I do for England,” he teased, and he enjoyed Q’s half-snort, if only because Q probably wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. He gently pushed Q further towards the middle of the bed, then laid down behind him, wrapping himself around the younger man. Q’s arm moved to cover his and James wriggled his hand around a bit until he could lace their fingers together. “If you need to puke, wake me before you do, alright?”

“Mm-mph.”

“Thank you.”

 

 *

The next morning, he found Q in the kitchen, making pancakes.

“Pancakes, really?”

“I could eat a horse.”

“Good to know, I’ll run down to the stables and—”

“Shush! James, I can’t remember some parts of last night.”

“Do you remember the target lacing your drink?”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

“Not much. I… I didn’t do anything terribly embarrassing, did I?”

James shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how you could have, GHB has the tendency to put you to sleep, not get you going like a rabbit on cheetah food. Then again…” he smiled wickedly.

Q narrowed his eyes at him. “James?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking… with the kind of havoc you’re able to wreak after a dozen cups of coffee within an hour, what would it look like if someone put you on speed?”

“James, it’s not funny.”

“Isn’t it?”

“M would kill you.”

“Only after having a good long laugh at the video on my phone.”

“One more word, and no pancakes.”


	2. #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [aryaspecter](http://aryaspecter.tumblr.com): “Okay how ’bout office phone sex? Like, Q is working at his desk and James is on a mission and decides to be an asshole and knows that there are people around/near Q (I would just like phone sex, yes please).”

“How much longer?” Bond growled.

“As long as it takes, 007,” Q responded levelly, not the least bit fazed by Bond’s impression of Mr Grumpy Face.

“I’m bored. Q, did you hear me, I’m actually bored. I can’t remember the last time I was bored on a job.”

“Surveillance is the stock of your trade, old chap.”

“Yes, but it’s not usually me doing it, is it? That’s what we have recruits for. And don’t call me old chap. We settled who’s Wooster and who’s Jeeves.”

“Actually, we didn’t.”

“We didn’t?”

“No, we didn’t.”

The way Q lowered his voice and his tone suggested to Bond that the end of that particular conversation they’d had a while ago had been slightly not safe for work, in every sense of the phrase.

“Oh, right. You distracted me by using your—”

“007, concentrate.”

“I am concentrating.”

“On the job at hand.”

“Now, that’s two words you really shouldn’t have used in the same sentence there.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“I’m not on speaker, am I?”

“Not yet you’re not.”

James ignored the underlying threat and cut right to the chase. “What are you wearing?”

“What?!”

“I know, bit of cliché, but a good lead-in question.”

“You know what I’m wearing, you saw me yesterday.”

“Yesterday—well, forgive me for assuming that you’d actually changed your—wait, have you been staying at the office all night again?”

“Someone had to.”

“Someone, not you.”

“James, we’ve talked about this.”  
“Exactly my point.”

“And this from the man who hates the interns.”

“You just like them because they bring you cupcakes—Q, I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to change the subject.”

“Am I?”

“Q…” Bond drew out the name the way he knew Q couldn’t resist; the way he had in the gallery for the first time.

“James, no.” Q’s voice was firm, but James could hear that the resolve was cracking.

“Oh, but Q, the things I could be doing to you right now,” James all but fucking _whined_ , and a quiet huff in his ear had him charging ahead.

“You could be wearing nothing at all right now, you know. You could be lying on my bed, spread out, just for me. I could be there, between your thighs, using only my hands and my mouth, touching you everywhere except where you need me the most, and—”

A strangled moan sounded over the comms, and Bond knew he had won.

“And then I could turn you around and lick up your—”

“If you would kindly interrupt the drafting of this exceptionally trashy romance novel, 007, there are more important things to do than your Quartermaster,” M’s voice suddenly cut in over the ether, and Bond nearly fell off his perch on the window sill. As Q let out a squeak he would deny vehemently later on, M continued, “Really, Bond, if that drivel is what you have to offer, I’m surprised you kept anyone around that long.”

Scrambling to rearrange himself, his own burgeoning arousal dying down as quickly as a candle in a storm, Bond murmured something vaguely subservient.

“Good. Now, gentlemen…”

*

“You just had to push your luck, didn’t you?” Q’s withering glare did nothing to quell James’ smirk as he flopped down on the sofa next to him.

“Worked, though, didn’t it?”

“You know, one day, that is going to cease being an argument you can make to get yourself out of the soup.”

“Not if I can promise you to have you naked within the hour afterwards, though, right?”

“Bond…”


	3. #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [ruthvsreality (sorry, little mix-up there)](http://ruthvsreality.tumblr.com): “00Q, unrequited on Bond's side. Emphasis on him not getting what he wants.”  
> And there comes the angst! Oh God, now I’ve given myself a sad. (AU from More of a Personal Statement, obviously.)

“Thank you, 007, I’ll take that back off you,” Q murmured politely as James handed him the gadgets and weapons that had actually made it through the latest mission alive. Bond found himself casting about for a reason to stay on, to… just watch Q work, if necessary, but even the geek was packing up for the night. After a job well done, they sometimes actually got to go home. Home was about the last place James wanted to be right now. His flat was quiet and empty, most notably empty of Q.

He didn’t know when it had happened, he only remembered coming back from Skyfall, bruised, bloodied, and battered; adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He’d asked Q to come along and ‘celebrate,’ as he’d put, if ever there was a euphemism for what he’d had in mind, this was it. God, he’d actually asked. And Q had regarded him steadily through his spectacles and declined, and it had been punches to the gut ever since. Polite, professional punches that left Bond knowing very well that he wanted what he couldn’t have, and still coming back for more.

He watched Q put everything back in its proper place, running his eyes over the slender fingers handling the weapons with the same care with which he took apart governments and organisations at the press of a key. He wanted those fingers on his skin, in his hair, everywhere they could reach, wanted to wrap himself around that ridiculous skinny nerd, that brilliant genius who had them all in his pocket.

Whenever someone from upstairs found their way down here, trying to impress the geeks with their politics and their power, James made it a point to stand behind Q, not too close, but close enough to hover; glaring at State Secretaries and Division Chiefs while Q silenced them from behind his laptop. Whenever he was out on a mission, sometimes he left the comms in his ear even when he went to sleep, muting them on his end, but listening to Q’s steady breathing and his fingers dancing across the keyboard.

He’d never thought he’d want anyone that way again.

Before Q could turn around and ask what the hell he was still doing there, Bond turned on his heel without a word, heading towards his flat and a bottle of vodka he knew must still be there.


	4. #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by anon on tumblr: “Q gets kidnapped and is used for bait. Bond goes crazy ofc.”  
> OK, more angst. Because I can.

Bond stormed through the corridors of MI6 HQ, his strides still contained enough for anyone who saw him to assume he was merely pissed off, not scared out of his wits. His eyes were wide, and he knew he had to work on that, but it wasn’t really something he was keen to consider right about now. Finally reaching his destination, he burst through the door.

“How did this happen?” he barked, making even Tanner jump.

M quelled him with a look. “Never mind that; whose toes did you tread on this time?”

“Me?” Bond demanded, incredulous. “I—he’s being used as bait, isn’t he.” It wasn’t a question. “For me.”

“What else did you think they’d take him for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The entire upper section of the British Secret Service, perhaps?”

“Bond, curb your insolence, and do it now. Your anger isn’t helping in here.”

“It will be helping when I get him out of wherever they’re keeping him. Where is he?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Bond started pacing.

“Sit. Down.”

He obeyed, just barely. He watched as the other geeks, whose names he didn’t even know, worked to triangulate the data they had managed to get off Q’s GPS signal before it had blinked out of existence. He didn’t want to get to know their names.

“What did I do?”

“I think setting your last target’s house on fire right in from of them was a bit too much.”

Bond let out a contemptible huff. At the same time, his thoughts were going a hundred miles a minute, weighing up what setting the house on fire had done for his ego; and what it was possibly doing to Q right now.

“Bond.”

He looked up at M, his mouth a thin line.

“You’re going to get him out.”

He nodded.

“And you’re never going to set anyone’s house on fire ever again, unless I tell you to.”


	5. #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by anon on tumblr: “I would love to see one of your ficlets from the perspective of the interns!”  
> Cupcakes!

"If they catch us doing this, they're gonna kill us. Slowly."

Audrey rolled her eyes at Brian and continued tallying up the sweepstakes. They had been at it for over a year now, and the money was getting good--so did the numbers. No wonder, since half of MI6 was in on it; starting with Q branch down in the basement, working its way up to the analysts on the third floor.

"Brian, I'm pretty sure they already know."

Brian made a strangled noise at the back of his throat.

"And so far, Bond hasn't torn anyone limb from limb, has he? Well, literally. Figuratively, he hardly ever misses an opportunity."

"Speaking of, it's your turn for the next check-in. I'm not handling him again tonight. When is the boss coming back?"

"You heard Bond, not until he's had at least 20 hours of sleep. Nothing's happening at the moment, so it's just as well Q is getting some rest."

"I can't believe the way they order each other about sometimes."

"Squabble like an old married couple, you mean?"

"You know, I'm glad I can't tell anyone what I'm working on or who for, 'cause no-one would believe the shit that goes down here every time Bond's on a mission."

"I'm surprised Q hasn't lost it yet. How does he stay focused, with 007 throwing data at him and giving him shit in between?"

"You're forgetting the innuendo."

"I'm _repressing_  the innuendo, that's a completely different thing."

"Are they really together, though?"

"The eyesex they have every single time Bond's down here is amazing."

"Imagine if they could have kids."

"They can have kids."

"No, I mean, fully combining both of their sets of DNA, not just one of them donating."

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"I don't think the earth would survive."

Audrey had curious expression of... awe on her face that Brian politely declined investigating too closely. Then, suddenly, she grinned. "We should start a new pool!"

"What?"

"Baby names! Best suggestion wins."

"God, Audrey, no!"

"Why not? The 'I told you so' pool is fit to burst, anyway, 'cause neither of them seems to be able work up a proper lead."

"That's because they're trying to one-up the other with stupid ideas."

"M hasn't told them to knock it off yet."

"Yeah, because those stupid ideas have a magical habit of working out for them."

"Now, don't be such a grouch, Brian, at the very least Bond is keeping us entertained."

"When he isn't busy verbally eviscerating us."

"How late is it?"

"Just past 6."

"I'd better get going, then."

"Yesss!"

"Don't get excited, you're taking the one at 11. You didn't think this through, Brian."

"What? No, no; the one at 11 is the one before he has to fling himself off of the tower, you know how he gets!"

"Oh, I do," Audrey chirped and sauntered out of the room, towards the main lab to activate the feed and establish communication with their favourite secret spy.

 

*

'"Hello, 007, how's your day going?"

"Which one are you? Annie?"

"It's Audrey."

"Whatever. Where's Q?"

"You told him to go home, remember?"

"He doesn't usually listen to me."

"Well, now you're stuck with me. Anything to report?"

"Do I get a cupcake if I answer in more than one syllable?"

"The cupcakes are for the boss, not for agents. The boss is skinny, you aren't."

"I hate interns."

"And don't we know it. Now: anything to report?"

"Nope."

"That's it? That's your syllable?"

The feed remained silent, and Audrey had to suppress a sigh. Welcome to her world.


	6. #6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by peter-pan-dyke on tumblr: “Just in case you're still taking requests - how 'bout Bond wearing t-shirt and jeans for a change and Q admiring this rare view, with a little slash obviously?”  
> Why the hell not!

When the door to his flat opened, Q had just thrown himself face first into the sofa (sans glasses, thanks very much) and was contemplating the worth of getting up to get himself some cereal—or just getting James to do it.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” a deep, rough voice drawled into his ear, and when Q nearly jumped, Bond chuckled and squatted next to the couch, running his hand slowly up and down Q’s back. “I take it they kept you on longer?”

“The clean-up was a nightmare,” Q complained, voice muffled by the cushions. “I just got back. When did they let you out?”

“Three hours ago. I went home to change, and then I got us Chinese on the way.”

Q hummed appreciatively. “Your timing, 007, is to be commended.”

“Thank you. But I think I heard you mumbling about cereal when I came in?”

“Huh. Did you.”

“You know, how you mumble whatever comes into your head when you’re half asleep is really, really dangerous, in case you ever get locked up in a sleep lab, but also very informative.”

Q managed to open one and eye and glare at James, who merely smirked.

“However, you shall have your cereal.”

Bond levered himself up and walked towards the kitchen, but stopped when he heard a choking noise from behind him. He turned to find Q scrambling to put his glasses on. When he succeeded, he blinked at James owlishly.

“What?”

“I… just… I think my circuits are fried.”

“Mmh, they should be,” Bond responded with a smug smile, and continued on his way. Q sat up on the sofa, staring. James was wearing the simplest outfit imaginable, and if anything could have woken him up, it was that. The agent came back out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of cereal, a spoon, and cookies. When he noticed Q was still staring, he stopped in the middle of the room.

“You know, I can just stay here so you can admire me a bit, but be advised that your cereal is going to get soggy if I do.” Q raked his eyes over him without answering: James was wearing washed-out jeans that clung to his hips and arse perfectly, and a grey t-shirt that just so happened to be in love with his abs. The short sleeves were showing off his bare, toned arms; and although Q had seen those often enough, this wasn’t the same. He’d seen James in old t-shirts and pyjama bottoms, but this, this was a vision. It wasn’t the expensive shirts and suits and ties that Q usually saw him in, or the substitute pyjamas he threw on when they made breakfast only to spend the rest of the day in bed, anyway, or draped over each other in whatever living room they were in. They hardly ever bothered to go home and change before meeting, also, they rarely went out when they were in London, and even then James mostly reverted to suits, in case anything happened or they got called in unexpectedly. But now, he was wearing just jeans and a t-shirt, and damn the cereal to hell.

“Q, I can see it wilt.”

“Come here, then,” Q sighed, his eyes glued to James’ shifting muscles as he walked up to him.

“Penny for them,” James mumbled around a cookie.

“It’s just,” Q shovelled down a bite of cereal, “you almost look like a normal bloke.”


	7. #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by three separate anons on tumblr, in various ways: “jealous!Bond. You choose why!” / “Another agent is flirting with Q. Cue a jealous/possessive Bond.” / “For some bizarre and convoluted reason, Q is required to seduce someone in the field. Bond sits in the corner and fumes jealously. And then possessiveness. Yay!”  
> I’ve taken the liberty of converging them into a double feature! Also, “Bond sits in the corner” is making me laugh hysterically, ‘cause it reminds me so much of that I SHALL JUST SIT HERE CONSUMED WITH LUST FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING cartoon off Hark! A Vagrant :D

**One:**

“If you would, try and bring this equipment back in not too many separate pieces, gentlemen,” Q advised 005 and 007 as he handed them several gadgets contained in slim, black cases. James popped the lid and peered inside, smirking at the vast array of pocket-sized weaponry Q had come up with since the last mission.

“You know, I’m half tempted not to, just to see what the punishment is like,” 005 drawled next to him, and James froze—and most of Q branch with him; albeit for different reasons. When he looked up, he saw 005 practically undressing Q with his eyes. James’ hands tightened their grip on the case, his jaw grinding as he stared holes into 005’s head; while Q’s eyebrows had that nearly imperceptible quirk to them that James easily identified as a physical representation of Oh No, You Didn’t. James held on to the anger for a little longer before he willed himself to relax a little. He could see from the anxious geek faces around him that they were just waiting for him to clock the other 00 where he stood, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Yet.

“Oh, I assure you, the punishment is considerable,” Q replied easily, and James unwittingly tilted his head, an unpleasant churning settling in his stomach even as Q continued. “But, alas, it is not doled out by me, but by Mrs Withers from the Treasury.”

One of the interns covered their snorts of laughter with a few very convincing coughs, and James’ green-eyed monster actually purred while 005 went a little white about the nose. Bond caught Q’s eye for a second and winked, Q merely raising the other eyebrow.

James shrugged minutely; and while their Quartermaster brought the two agents up to speed on their joint mission, he went through all the ways he could make 005’s time with him a living hell.

When they were done, Q tightened his hold for a moment as he shook Bond’s hand and murmured, “Don’t be too harsh on him. Be harsh on me when you get back.”

Bond inhaled sharply and nodded when he turned to leave. Yes, that he could definitely spend a while thinking about, too.

* * *

 

**Two:**

“M, you know what happened the last time you let Q wander into a nightclub as bait for a target: he got dosed with GHB and I had to lug him home.”

“I remember perfectly well, thank you, 007,” came the dry reply from his boss and Bond shrugged as if saying, merely trying to help with your conundrum there. “But this time, it won’t be a nightclub, it will be a hotel suite, and Q won’t be a hapless punter, he’ll be a rather high-class call boy.”

Within the second, Bond was sitting up straight in his chair. “What.”

“You understood me perfectly, Bond.”

“I did. The question remains: what.”

“Care to elaborate, 007?” Oh, she loved torturing him. A bit.

“Alright. Why not me?”

“That’s what it comes down to every time, doesn’t it?”

“With good reason.”

“Fine. Let me put it bluntly, then: you tried, you failed—you’re not her type. Q, however, is exactly her type. And don’t pretend you don’t understand why,” she added, fixing Bond with a stare from her piercing eyes that regularly scared all sorts of Presidents, Prime Ministers, Foreign Secretaries, and Security Chiefs.

Bond grumbled something under his breath.

“Oh, of course you’ll have to watch. I wouldn’t make you miss this for the world.”

*

And so, Bond sat through it, through the entire thing. Sat through Q meeting their target in her hotel room, sat through the preliminaries of money changing hands and idle chit-chat, sat through listening to the two of them getting on like a house of fire; because Q was smart and a genius at reading people and just so damn good at this that everyone seemed to ask themselves, Christ, why wasn’t he a field agent again?

(Bond knew that it was because Q preferred the quiet—well—of his lab, preferred the company of other people just as absorbed by their screens and keyboards as he was. Out in the field, he needed to adopt a cover like the others, and Bond knew from experience that you needed time to recharge before going back out. Sometimes, when they were in London, they spent days in bed, long stretches of silence punctuated by sex and quiet meals, Q sitting up reading and James squished against his side. Bond had chosen the life in the field, it came naturally to him now, but he knew it wasn’t Q’s first choice.)

After Q and his “client” had gone through the getting-to-know-each-other part, things rapidly turned steamy. Bond sat in the corner of the surveillance room they had set up in an empty flat on the other side of the street, listening to covers rustling and their target’s moans turning into cries; and he had to shut his eyes when Q’s voice began echoing her passion.

*

When Q came back, having secured what they’d been looking for from their target’s laptop, Bond hadn’t quite known what to do, but Q had taken the decision off him by quickly pecking him on the cheek when no-one was looking and then darting off towards the bathroom. Bond nodded dumbly at his back and was about to sit down again when someone cleared their throat next to him. He turned and found M staring at him, jerking her head in the direction Q had disappeared to.

“Go on, then.”

“But—”

“Go, as long as everyone’s too busy to notice. The bathroom has a connecting door to another room. Lock it behind you.”

Bond stared at her for a moment before deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and took off after Q.

Q turned, a surprised look on his face, when James entered and immediately started taking off his clothes to catch up with him.

“James?”

“M keeps enabling me, it’s dangerous.”

“I’d say so,” came the vague reply, and James looked up to search Q’s face. What he saw made him stamp down on his need to mark Q as his own right then and there.

“Is this alright? If you need some peace and quiet, I can just go on through to the other room and wait for you. Or, I can… y’know. Leave.”

Within a second, he found himself with an armful of Q, who was shaking his head.

“No, it’s… I want you to stay, I just… I didn’t like doing this.”

Bond wrapped his arms around Q and squeezed lightly. “I do this to you on a regular basis.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t. You just got used to it, you’re better at distinguishing between 007 and James. I didn’t even think about it on that first mission after Skyfall. I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.”

“OK.”

Wordlessly, Q disentangled himself from James and took off the rest of his clothes, the agent following suit. Wrapping his hand around James’ wrist, Q pulled him into the shower with him and turned on the water.

Standing underneath the spray, James grabbed the soap conveniently placed on the side and started washing Q gently, running his soap-slicked hands over every inch of Q, even kneeling before him to wash his feet, which made Q chuckle quietly. When he stood up again, he raked his eyes over Q’s skin and noted with satisfaction that there were no bite marks anywhere, no hickeys.

Q interpreted James’ gaze correctly and smirked. “I wouldn’t let her. Every time she tried, I distracted her—she was persistent, mind.”

James smiled, murmuring, “Thank you,” before kissing Q soundly, fully intent on making his mouth be the first and the last thing Q had tasted that day.


	8. #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by anon on tumblr: "Vesper never died. When she comes back, James has a difficult decision to make, Vesper or Q?"  
> Or, as Mickey would say: The missus and the ex. Welcome to every man's worst nightmare.

James and Q bounded into James' flat, still grinning at the way M had practically annihilated the Home Secretary barely an hour ago. Bond was about to pull Q close and kiss him senseless, when they both realised that there was a light on in the living room. With one look, they agreed on a plan and an exit strategy, and as 007's hand went for his gun, Q reached down towards Bond's ankle and withdrew the small knife that he'd still had sheathed there.  
When they reached the door, Bond quickly peered around it, but he couldn't see anyone. "Kitchen," he mouthed, and Q nodded. They quickly made their way around the corner, Bond making sure to shield Q's body with his just in case, no matter how much ribbing he'd have to endure later. Or scolding, depending on the outcome.  
What they saw when they came into full view of James' kitchen stopped them in their tracks. Bond lowered the gun only after a few seconds of stunned silence, and Q slipped the knife into his coat pocket.  
"Hello, James. Oh, and company."  
Q looked back and forth between the woman, who looked so much like Vesper Lynd that she could really only be Vesper Lynd, and James for a minute. Vesper looked as stunning as Q remembered her from her file, and exuded an air of intelligence and confidence that Q had only ever encountered in two people: M and Bond. He chanced another sideways glance at Bond and recognised the range of emotions that must be barrelling through him by the fact that exactly none of them showed on his face; except for the obvious consternation. He fought with himself, but in the end he stepped a minute step closer to Bond, just so that he could feel his body heat next to him; not seeking possession, just comfort. Vesper must have instinctively understood the gesture for what it was, for her eyes widened for just a second.

Bond didn't know what to do, to say, or even bloody think, because... Not such a long time ago, he would have given everything, anything, to bring Vesper back. Knowing that she had given her life to protect him had haunted him even as he'd been torn apart by the fact that, ultimately, she had done all of it to save another man she'd loved more. And now here she was, as beautiful and just as deadly as he'd ever known her; and it was a dream come true.  
Except, whose dream was it? Was it still his? He felt Q shift imperceptibly beside him, and James knew he loved him. Q had found him at his worst, had picked him up and carried him until he could walk, had steadied him as he staggered, had waited and waited until James finally understood.  
And then there was this dream.  
"You're not dead anymore." His voice was bland.  
"I never was." Hers was raw.  
"How?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"Maybe not."  
"I'm sorry, James. I... I didn't know. If I had, I'd--"  
"You should have told me." A touch of anger was colouring his tone.  
"I couldn't, they would have killed you."  
"We could have worked it out! I was much more likely to die walking into something I didn't understand!"  
"They wanted a life, I gave them one!"  
"No. No, you didn't. At least not yours. If you planned coming back like this all along, you didn't give them yours. You gave them mine."  
Vesper averted her eyes, clenching her fists on the countertop.  
"I know why you did it. And knowing that you're alive is a gift I don't deserve." Her head snapped up. "But I can't trust you. I can't trust you, and I won't leave him."  
Now it was Q's turn to get whiplash. "James, no. Don't rush this. It might take time, but you could--"  
"No."  
"Don't be with me because it's safe."  
James slowly turned his head and reached out to lightly grasp Q's hand. "Being with you isn't safe."  
From far away, they heard Vesper gather her things and leave.


	9. #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by noxberry on tumblr: “What about when Bond and Q buy foods at the store together? Or they can cook together :D”  
> Oh, this is cute! Oh, it also reminds me of one of Inkie’s ideas, of Bond running into trouble while at the supermarket—let’s see… [half an hour later] OK, somehow this became about kids. The pitchforks are over there. Defend your feels.

“What did M want?” James asked when Q joined him in the living room of the safe house at Lauriston Gardens (it was becoming a bit of a favourite—since they’d fixed the stove). Q looked a little dazed and Bond pulled a face. “What? Did Tanner get married or something?”

“She gave us another week off.”

“What? We were supposed to come back in tomorrow, for the Bolivia job.”

“Yeah.”

“So, did that just… resolve itself, or did the international terrorists call and let her know that they needed another week to fix the thing?”

“I have no idea. All I know is, we’re on standby until further notice.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s scheming again.”

“You don’t know better.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Sex in the bathtub?”

“James! Although, yes, actually, but what I meant is: we need groceries. Our flats are barren, we can’t have anything delivered here, so…”

“Shopping.”

“I know.”

“OK. Let’s go.”

 

 _A super-virile secret agent and his genius tech whizz Quartermaster have to go grocery shopping,_ thought Q as they made their way out the door. _Of course they’re treating it like a mission. Of course they are._

“Penny for them.”

Walking in step with each other, their shoulders brushing, their breath condensing in the cold February air, they must have looked positively normal.

“Ever since that nice old lady at the tea shop, going out for groceries hasn’t been the same, has it?” Q smiled at James from the side.

“How could it be? We only do that once every few months, and just then, just when we were looking like we’d just been dragged through a dozen hedges backwards after Russia, a nice old grandmother trundles past and asks us about kids. In what universe does that make sense?”

“At least this time your face isn’t held together by butterfly stitches and I’m not missing half my hair.”

“ _That_ is a definite improvement!”

 

A couple of minutes later, they were wandering through the aisles, grabbing the basics along with what they felt a craving coming on for; Q wordlessly shoving a packet of James’ favourite cookies at him.

“You said you weren’t going to let me have cookies until I’ve brought all the equipment back in one piece.”

“I was upset at the time.”

“I gathered.”

“Stop being a smartarse and enjoy your cookies?”

“Alright.”

They were almost finished and just wondering how much milk they’d need when a tiny voice behind them asked, “Mummy, why do I always have to come along when you’re getting groceries? Look, they left their kids at home, too.” Bond and Q craned their necks to see a boy, about eight, give his mother a look that said, ‘Really, you’re being silly.’ James noticed only then that he’d put his hand on the small of Q’s back and that, really, they looked as couple-y as a deadly blunt instrument and the man who made his weapons and knew 100 ways to kill you with a piece of twine possibly could on their day off.

The boy’s mother visibly resisted the urge to roll her eyes before winking at James and Q. “Yes, they did. And the last time _I_ did, you nearly crashed all the WiFi in the neighbourhood trying to recreate the Archangel Network, so what am I supposed to do?”

“You might want to recruit him,” James murmured in Q’s ear, and the Quartermaster snorted. Following a sudden impulse, Q bent at the waist so he was on eyelevel with the boy.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Well, Daniel, don’t be too hard on your mum, she just doesn’t want you to get into trouble.”

The boy blinked at him. “And your kids, don’t they get into trouble?”

“Oh, we don’t have kids.”

“Why not?”

“It’s… we’re both very busy, and our jobs are a bit dangerous.”

“Why, what do you do?” Daniel’s eyes widened. “Are you policemen? Or, or spies?”

“Well, if we were, we couldn’t tell you, could we?”

“No, s’pose not.” The boy looked crestfallen and, suddenly, James was beside Q, leaning down.

“Just one clue: it’s not Torchwood.” Daniel giggled, sullen mood forgotten, and his mother beamed at them. As they left, Bond quickly ruffled Daniel’s hair; and while they were walking towards the checkout, they could hear him chatting away excitedly about detectives and spies, and the riddles he could solve.

“His poor mum,” Q chuckled. James smiled back, but remained silent, and continued to mull something over in his head the entire way back to the flat. Q wisely waited him out, knowing that he’d open up eventually.

It was when they were sitting on the sofa after dinner, Q half draped across James’ lap, reading, that Bond poked his knee.

“Would you—if we could—would you… want kids? With me?”

Q nearly dropped his book, but caught himself quickly. “Yes.”

The simplicity of the answer seemed to be a bit much for James just then.

“If a world existed in which we could be who we are and do what we do and still raise a child in good conscience, then, yes.”

James averted his gaze, and Q knew he was about to guilt-trip himself into a strop.

“James, look at me.” Blue eyes met Q’s brown. “You’re a double-0, you’re not supposed to have meaningful relationships with someone other than your gun.” _You’re supposed to have an inherent death wish_ , he thought, but bit his tongue before it could slip out. “And yet, here I am. It’s more than enough. We are who we are, and we do what we do, and we wouldn’t be here if we were M’s accountants. Would you want to have kids?”

Bond idly traced his thumb over Q’s ankle.

“With you, yes. If, you know, we were M’s accountants.”

Q stretched up to press a kiss to James’ temple; and that was that.


	10. #10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by deviant-accumulation on tumblr: “I'd love to see a continuation to the bait!Q fic, where they discover the location Q is kept at and Bond rushes off (probably against M's orders). When he finally finds and frees him however, Q refuses to play damsel in distress any second longer and goes all 'I'll just hack into that high-security system here and blow this place to hell'.”  
> HELL YES!

“Oh, you just wait,” Q spat as soon as they ripped the tape off of his mouth, slightly disoriented because they had taken his glasses off of him. “You just wait until he knows who and where you are. And when he catches up with you, you’ll wish you’d never had this moronic idea.”

The fist that landed in his face broke his nose, but he didn’t care.

 

*

 

“We have a trace!” the call echoed through the room, and Bond jumped. He rushed past M towards the geek interns who were scrambling to make room for him at the line of desks.

“Can you get a lock on his location?” M asked, coming up behind Bond.

“The signal’s faint, the GPS tracker in his glasses must have been damaged when he was taken, but using CCTV and what scraps we got, we could triangulate the data. He must be somewhere in Whitechapel, of all places.”

“How fitting,” M commented drily.

“Where exactly?” James demanded. “At least give me a quadrant.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Bond.”

“Like hell I’m not,” he snapped.

“007!” The tone in M’s voice caused even the most frantically typing geek to freeze—James merely turned, face carefully blank. “If you value your continued existence, you’re going to let someone else handle this the way I see fit, are we clear?”

At that moment, a steady beeping indicated the lock on a GPS signal. Bond cast a look at the screen, registering the location, and turned on his heel. “No.” Within seconds, he was out of the room.

Fuming, M gave a jerky nod at Tanner, authorising him to deploy back-up to make sure the man didn’t get himself _and_ Q killed.

 

*

 

When the door burst open and bullets zipped through the room, killing his two guards, Q was only marginally surprised to see that James had come alone.

“Where have you been all day?” he complained, but was quickly shut up by James dropping to his knees in front of him and reaching up to kiss him breathlessly. He responded as best he could, restrained and injured as he was. He winced when James pulled back and went to work on the ropes binding him to the chair.

“Catching up on beauty sleep,” Bond shot back, “and I see it helped, ‘cause I look a sight better than you do.”

He wasn’t half wrong: Q’s left eye was swollen shut, he had a split lip, his nose was obviously broken, and there was an already sizable lump on his temple.

“Very funny, 007,” Q snarked, and jumped up as soon as James had cut all his restraints. Immediately, steadying hands closed around his forearms.

“Easy, come on, there’s no rush. I’m sure M sent someone after me to make sure I wouldn’t get your arse busted, so they’re probably already working the clean-up.”

“Oh, but there is something I have to do,” Q replied, grinning. James sent him a questioning look, but let him go. Q hobbled towards the wall, Bond trailing after him, hovering protectively. Q reached out and pressed the palm of his hand to a panel in the wall, upon which something _clicked_ , and a series of panels began rearranging themselves, revealing a massive screen built into the wall, command panels surrounding it.

“Tsk, lazy,” Q remarked, “just using heat sensors instead of palm recognition. Then again, who’d think to look for it?” He half turned towards James, winking, and James smiled at him, though inwardly he was asking himself whether this time Q had actually been dosed with acid, or whether he was just really, really pissed off.

“You may wonder what I’m on about, James,” Q said nonchalantly while hacking himself into the system. “And I’ll tell you. Right after I’ve set this thing to blow this rat hole sky-high sometime tonight.” Grinning smugly, Q hit ‘enter’ with a flourish, and a complicated matrix boxed itself up on the screen and popped out of pixel-y existence.

“Finished?” was all James asked.

“Yup. Can we go home now, I’d like an ice pack and all the painkillers in your flat.”

“Sure. M is going to want to drill both us a new one beforehand, though.”

“Oh, alright. James?”

“What?”

“Thank you. They were about to get the pincers and get to work on my fingernails.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Mmh. James?”

“Yes, Q?”

“A hug would be nice, too.”

“I thought you weren’t the damsel in distress type,” James teased even while he wrapped his arms around Q and buried his face in his shoulder.

“Idiot.”


	11. #11 [What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “Oh my God, could you do a remake of "What the hour hand said to the minute hand" with Bond and Q? I don't know why, that poem just reminded me so much of them.”  
> Wow, I’ve never had a poetry request! And this is really brilliant, because I’ve observed to Inkie once how James basically revolves around Q, tearing through the world the way he does; the two move at a very different pace most of the time, except for when they overlap. Gorgeous request!  
> Probably slightly AU.

At 7:35 A.M, I feel your stubbled cheek on my shoulder  
before you go and smooth it with your razor.

At 8:40 you come home and bring take-away Chinese.

 _At 9:45 we finally_ eat _it, cold.  
  
_ _I finish your leftover half._

_By 10:50 you are already breathless.  
_ _I live for every time we overlap._

When 11:55 comes I try for a minute to convince you to say no to a mission.  
You say you can't.

By noon I push my hands through your hair and say, “James,  
you don't owe them anything. They're burning you at the stake and you're letting them.”

At 1:05 you tell me that if you didn't,  
 _15,300 babies_ would never be born.

_At 2:10 you don’t say a word,  
_ _just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight._

At 3:15 we stay quiet, listening to Muse's new album that you bought  
and it happens all at once, _all 15,000_ notes.

At 4:20 I catch you smoking in an alleyway behind MI6 HQ.  
You do not throw the butt away.

_At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour._  
 _My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,  
_ _a shot of tequila sitting on the bar._

_At 6:30 I hear the_ explosions.  
 _I count your_ breathing in my ear _like seconds between thunderclaps._

By 7:35 I see you walking up the street,  
each step takes you closer to me.  
 _We always love quick and you never let me hold you.  
_ _I dream of drinking you through a straw._

At 8:40 you try to figure out the curl of my hair.

_At 9:45 we do not speak.  
_ _Too many people have died since we last met._

At 10:50 we hope that the terrorists are tired,  
at least a little, to slow our world down as well.

11:55 is the best time of all.  
Because even we get Christmas and New Year's off.

But at midnight you’ll say you have to leave again  
because it will always be your duty.

_At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping._  
 _It’s exhausting loving someone  
_ _who is constantly running away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note:  
> The poem _What the Hour Hand Said to the Minute Hand_ by Megan Falley can be found on her website, here. I’ve italicised the bits I’ve kept because they already fit so well and set the tone.


	12. #12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by theastronautssong on tumblr: “College AU 00Q perhaps? Where popular James is stupid for not realizing that he has fallen in love with science nerd Q in high school, while Q has been waiting for a long time. Bonus if James used to torture Q in high school and lots of UST.”  
> I know, I know, college AUs are a common trope, but I liked the idea!

“Hey, Bond!” James heard a voice call after him when he stepped out of the lecture hall. Bill Tanner caught up with him, wielding a stack of books from the library. “We still have to go over the notes for that project Professor Madison gave us.”  
James winced. “Madison, the old hag, can kiss my foot, I’m off for the long weekend.”

“Oh yeah? Where are you going, Catherine’s place?”

“It’s Holly, but yes.” Ever since his aunt Charmian, his last remaining relative, had died two years ago, he usually spent holidays with one of his changing girlfriends.

“When are you going to be back? Midterms are coming up, and I’d like to get this finished beforehand.”

Bond smirked. “Tanner, always so worried! Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’ll be back on Monday, we can go over the project in the evening. Who else is on it, by the way? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“As ever,” Tanner muttered under his breath. “Penny is on it, and Quentin.”

“Quentin?” James furrowed his brow. “Who’s that again?”

“Come on, you have to remember Quentin, he was at Fettes with us! Science geek, mop of hair, glasses..?”

“Oh, you mean Q!”

“Q, seriously?” Bill snorted, nearly walking into a wall. “That’s what you’re calling him? No wonder he hated you, you were a bully.”

“You know, he never actually said anything…”

“You were horrible to him, James.”

“I was teasing!”

“You made him miserable half the time!”

“I didn’t!”

Tanner tilted his head at him, glaring.

“Hey, the boy couldn’t take a joke.”

This time, Tanner walked towards a wall deliberately—to bash his head against it. “James, please, don’t lower the intelligence of this entire college by using that line. It’s beneath even you.”

“Fine. The point still stands.”

“The point is wobbling weakly, James,” Tanner shot back; “I’m serious, half the time I didn’t know whether you genuinely hated him or whether you were pulling his pigtails.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“And there goes the IQ of St. Anne’s… Oh, look, it’s below the Earth’s crust now.”

“Tanner!”

“Do the math, James. Oh, no, wait, that’s more Q’s area, isn’t it? Perhaps you should talk to him!” With that, Bill set off down the other hallway, cackling. James shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth his time—he had a weekend in bed to look forward to.

*

Come Monday, James had forgotten about the incident entirely—until he came face to face with the aforementioned prodigy of the faculty in the seminar room Bill had talked Madison into letting them use.

“Q,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly to emphasise his still superior height. Q tilted his head, as if challenging James. 'Really, is that still all you’ve got?'

James stepped another few inches closer. “Still trying to conquer the world with numbers and lines of code, I see.”

Q actually, physically, rolled his eyes at him. “The times when your childish antics were even vaguely _amusing_ are rather over, Bond.”

Now it was James’ turn to tilt his head. Q had never shied away from him in school, but he had never directly challenged him, either. He had mostly borne the brunt of James’ “attention” with an air of put-upon ignorance; probably hoping that James would get bored and give up if he didn’t pay him any mind. Curiously enough, that had never really fazed Bond at all.

“Bond, get out of my face,” Q suddenly snapped him out of his thoughts, and when James came back to himself, he realised that he had taken another step closer to Q in the meantime, boxing him in against a desk at the front of the room. In that moment, the door opened and Bill and Penny came in, chatting away, and he quickly took two steps back and endeavoured to appear nonchalant. Judging by the way Tanner and Penny stopped, looked back and forth between him and Q for a moment, and then both failed miserably to suppress a smirk, James reckoned it wasn’t going so well.

*

 

It was another week before James had a bit of an epiphany.

They were sitting in Bill’s dorm room, going over the last details of the project. Bill and Penny were sitting at the desk, bickering over the mode of visualisation, while Bond had unwisely opted to sit next to Q on the bed. Somehow, Q’s limbs had the unfortunate tendency of sprawling just about everywhere while he was working, and though that wasn’t so noticeable when they were at a desk, it was inescapable on a narrow bed. Q had books strewn everywhere about him, his laptop balanced on his knees, and when he was working with four volumes at a time, he even used James as a bookstand. When he wasn’t infringing on James’ personal space with paper, he was budging about and half-turning on the bed to pick up another book from the floor and look something up in the encyclopaedia that lay behind him; and his arms and thighs were brushing James’ with a regularity that was driving him _insane_. To put a long story short, he had the most unanticipated and inconvenient hard-on of his life.

So far, everything was going fine: he had covered his lap with a rather large textbook at the first sign of potential humiliation while taking notes for the lecture. He just hoped—

“Bond, I need that.”

“What?”

“The textbook.” Quentin wiggled his fingers impatiently. James knew that refusing or hesitating would only call more attention to it than he could afford. So he handed the book over without further comment, intently looking at his notes. When he felt the tug of Q’s hand on the book, he allowed himself a small feeling of relief, but then the pressure ceased momentarily. James waited endless seconds before Q pulled the book from his grasp. He didn’t turn to look at Q, but he sensed Q moving slower and more carefully next to him, and cursed himself. Then again, on the plus side: his erection was subsiding as if someone had ended up a bucket of ice water on him.

When their study session was over, he excused himself and left in a hurry without so much as a glance or a word in Q’s direction.

*

“James, you’re an idiot.”

James, who was resting his forehead on his folded arms and dozing lightly before the lecture—he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before—, looked up and found Penny glaring at him as she unpacked her things.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he groused.

“And what, pray tell, are you going to do about it?”

“How about nothing at all until it goes away?”

Bill arrived, and Penny turned towards him.

“Bill, James is being obtuse.”  
“When isn’t he.”

“Thank you, Tanner.”

“You’re welcome, Bond.”

“Boys, I’m serious.”

“So are we.”

“James, you’ve been moping. I’ve never seen you mope. Moping doesn’t suit you.”

“Say moping one more time, and I’ll get up and you can finish this project on your own.”

“Talk to Quentin.”

“Why would I—”

“ _Talk_ to Quentin.”

* 

Two weeks later, James did. He was in for a surprise when Q answered his inquiry whether he’d like to go see the new Bourne movie with him by seizing him by the collar, snogging him senseless, and muttering, “Finally.”

Well, shit.


	13. #13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not so much a direct request as a silly, collaborative idea. Lele and I were chatting about my tattoo and possibly getting a 00Q one, and then I was like, ‘I really want to write Q getting a tat and James finding it when he gets home now,’ and Lele said, ‘something James-related, like from the museum when they first met,’ and my brain went FUCK YOU LELE, and I started typing. Because I have literally no impulse control. Also: contains allusions to last night’s chat.

It hurt. Shit, ow, it hurt. Not as much as the bullet a few months ago, or when he’d been knocked through a window (only to conveniently land on James), but Q wasn’t generally a fan of inflicting pain on himself unless absolutely necessary.

Good thing that this was positively vital, then.

 

*

 

When James opened the door to his flat, he was knackered. Knackered and grumpy at vaulting over fences and cab drivers whose favourite song was _Walking on Sunshine_. He’d gotten a text from Q that said he’d be waiting for him, though, which helped. They hadn’t been in contact much, because M had ordered Q to take a few days off again, so he’d only come in intermittently to check up on James during the important bits, while the interns handled the check-ins and the rest.

He dragged himself into the living room and found Q on the sofa, asleep with a book open on his chest. James smiled. It wasn’t a sight he got to see very often, at least not waiting for him like this, served on a platter. Quietly, he padded over and ran his hand through Q’s curls.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” he teased, knowing Q would snap awake almost immediately. He always did when not knowing when James would be back.

“You can get right out again,” Q mumbled crossly as he looked up at James, blinking.

“What, you’re throwing me out of my own flat?”

“Right out of England,” Q murmured, sitting up, leaning his head against James’ stomach.

“C’mon,” James said, his right hand gently massaging Q’s neck. “Let’s get some sleep.”

 

In the bedroom, Q willingly let James undress them both, preferring to keep his eyes closed and continuing to doze. James had just got him out of his trousers and had pulled down the waistband of his boxers to press a kiss to his hipbone when he froze mid-movement.

“Q? What’s that?”

“You know what that is.”

And indeed he did. It was the carefully rendered sketch of an old battleship, inked into Q’s taut, pale skin.

“The painting,” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“The bloody big ship.”

“Yes.”

“When did you get it?”

“A couple of days ago. You were in Oslo.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Carefully.”

James lightly ran his fingertips over the slightly pinkish area. “It feels like a scar.”

“That’s the scabbing. It’s going to come off in a few days, leaving healed skin beneath.”

James bent down to brush his mouth against the unmarked skin next to it. “Good.”

When they fell asleep, James’ hand was curled around Q’s hip; and when he woke up, Q found James tracing the tattoo with his eyes hungrily, like he couldn’t wait to make it his.


	14. #14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “I just thought of this out of the blue. Remember how James "died" then came back like three months after? Can you do that again with James still getting shot and would seem like he died, but he lived. Q, then would look for him without fail, but here's the catch: James doesn't remember anything. Except for the letter Q.”  
> Ow. Ow, the angst. And, oh, the fluff. Oh, and then I remembered the line, “Half monk, half hit man,” from _Casino Royale_. Ow.  
>  That whistling language village in Greece actually does exist, by the way.

“Q, why are you still here, all on your own? It’s 2 am! I just wanted to put these on your desk before I—Q, what are you doing?”

“Tanner, you’re not dim, you can see what I’m doing.”

“I’ll have to take this to M.”

“Oh, go, go. Tell her.”

“Q, you have to stop. It’s been three months.”

“No, I don’t. The world has to stop turning and afford me more hours in a day, the other agents need to stop fucking everything I give them up, but I don’t have to, I _will_ _not_ stop looking for him.”

Tanner deposited the files he’d brought on Q’s desk and left.

 

*

 

“Now let me be very clear. If I ever catch wind of you using MI6 resources to look for a dead man again, I will cast you out into the street without a second thought. Is that understood?” M didn’t want to say this, it went against every grain in her body to say it, but she had to. She’d lost an agent, the best she’d had, and now it seemed that the cocky sod had always been right: without him, the world was going to hell in a handbasket, fast.

“Yes, ma’am.” Q was standing before her making every effort to look like a bedraggled puppy, but under the surface he was every bit as unyielding as _he_ had ever been.

“Q, I can’t afford to lose both of you. This independent inquiry of yours can’t continue.”

“Then make it official again.”

“You know it doesn’t work like that. Three weeks. You had three weeks to find him, he had three weeks to come back. He’s gone.”

“But even if he were, wouldn’t you want to know how, and where?”  
“Q, the Prime Minister isn’t remotely interested in exactly what ditch 007’s body landed in.”

“I wasn’t asking the Prime Minister.”

M took a deep breath. “Of course I want to know. But now I never will.”

“People don’t just disappear.”

M nearly scoffed. “You know perfectly well that they do. You’ve _made_ some of them disappear. And even before you came into the picture, Bond’s vanishing acts were very good.”

“He’s never dropped off the face of the earth this completely before.”  
“No, but he’s never sent me postcards saying, ‘I’m going to Venice next week, would you like a tin of biscuits?’ either.”

“Just resignation letters. Yeah, I know about that.”

“Your point being?” M’s voice was barely controlled, and Q knew he had to tread carefully now.

“My point is: I need to find him. And I will.”

“I won’t cover your arse if you get caught.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Get out of my sight.”  
“Yes, ma’am.”

 

*

 

Q.

The only thing he remembered, and it was the bloody seventeenth letter of the alphabet, and nothing else.

He was lying on his bed in his little room, counting the cracks in the ceiling, listening to the monks’ singing. Morning mass was almost over, and he didn’t know what to do. His injuries were fully healed, he could take hour-long walks in the monastery’s gardens without having to catch his breath. He looked down at himself critically. He’d clearly been a very fit guy; and the way the oats were biting him attested to that. He was bored, utterly, absolutely _bored_. At the same time, he doubted he’d ever felt so at peace. Not with that many scars all over his torso, he hadn’t.

Let alone that bullet hole in his shoulder.

He scoffed. When the monks had found him, he’d barely been alive. How he’d ended up at the arse of the world somewhere in Greece was beyond him. One of the monks who spoke passable English had explained to him that the villagers a few miles over actually communicated in whistles.

They’d taken him in, a doctor passing through had treated him, and they had waited three days for him to wake up. Since then, he’d simply been living with them, regaining his strength and hoping for his memory to come back. Shot, nearly drowned, it was a marvel that he was alive; and now he couldn’t even remember his own name for his trouble.

Just ‘Q.’ Whatever the hell that meant.

He was just about to get up and go for a run when he heard a commotion down in the entryway. Bond leapt up and went downstairs, curious—no-one ever passed through the village except for a doctor every now and then and the occasional lorry. (The local post office had a telephone, but cable and WiFi were about as widely sought after as the plague. The monks had suggested he travel and try to find out more in Athens, but he’d stayed where he was, for whatever reason.)

When he stepped out into the hall from the staircase, he saw the other monks milling around a nerdy-looking kid in jeans, shirt, and a ridiculous cardigan. He had a shock of black, curly hair, and thick-rimmed glasses that made him look about twelve. He was trying to communicate to the monks where he came from and what he wanted, so absorbed in explaining himself with hands and feet that he hadn’t noticed him walking closer. When he realised with a jolt that the visitor was speaking English, he stepped in.

“Perhaps I can help.”

At his voice, the newcomer whirled around, eyes wide, mouth hanging open mid-word.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “It’s you. It’s really you.” He seemed to want to launch himself at him, but he stopped and pulled himself together. “I know you don’t remember anything. But I know you. I’ve been looking all over for you.” At this, the young man had to swallow thickly and averted his eyes for a moment. “They found you?”

He nodded. “They treated me, clothed me, fed me. I’m fine. I’m sorry I don’t… Who are you?”

This time, a small sob did escape the kid. “It’s—it’s fine.”

“You say you’ve been looking for me?”

“For ages, yes. Got into trouble for it, a lot, but at least now I know it was worth it.”

“How did you find me?”

“It was almost an accident, really, I… I’d checked all hospitals, all John Does turning up everywhere in Europe, then the rest of the world, I… and then, there was this weird newspaper article somewhere in Hick town, Greece, of a bloke who’d turned up in a monastery, not knowing who he was. Someone contacted the British embassy, but the report got lost or buried or coffee spilt on or whatever else, and we didn’t hear about it until last week. I only got wind of it through back channels. And now, here I am.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

The kid laughed.

“What?”

“Just… You may not remember who you are, but you _are_ him. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you who I work for unless you remember. But I can take you back to England, back home, and… we can try getting your memory back.”

“At least tell me your name before I whizz off anywhere with a kid in a cardigan, promising me something I’ve almost given up on.”

The kid hesitated, but then he nodded. “My name is Q.”

He had to sit down. As the boy—as Q and the monks, who had followed their conversation with interest, despite the language barrier, watched, he sank into a chair at the huge table, staring. His breathing was coming faster and faster, and he knew he was barrelling straight into a panic attack as images, voices, memories, and pain surged through him. Something in his head had yielded, and as man and name, man and letter, came together in his mind, he—Bond, James Bond, had to fight not to be buried under 40 years of life, dirt, and blood raining down on him.

In a flash, Q was kneeling on the floor in front of him, careful not to touch him but hovering close, brown eyes desperate and pleading.

“Please, what have I done,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have told you, I should have waited, I—”

“Shut up,” James growled, and only half knowing why, he surged forward and crushed his mouth against Q’s. Surprised by James’ ferocity, Q swayed backwards, flailing slightly, and without anything in the way to stop them, Bond simply let himself tip forward until, eventually, Q was on his back underneath him, the stone floor no doubt digging into his shoulder blades the way they were hard against James’ kneecaps. Far away, he heard someone clear their throat and monks’ sandaled feet shuffling out the door into the yard. He didn’t care, and going by the hungry moans that were escaping Q, he didn’t either.

After what may have been minutes or seconds, however, Q pulled at James’ slightly longer hair to break the kiss.

“This is too fast, James.”

“I haven’t seen you in three months.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I don’t think so.” He dove back in to kiss Q again, but stopped immediately when he felt the other man struggle against him. He bent his neck to rest his forehead on Q’s shoulder instead, trying to slow his breathing. Q’s hand curled into the hair in his nape, and he nearly started purring.

“I remember that.”


	15. #15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a random idea I had after thinking about the scene at the National Gallery and that shot where James pops the lid to find something that will end up surprising him. This time, he finds something that really, really surprises him. Then again, not all that much.  
> This is for the 00Q fandom.  
> Also, I’ve been writing both fics of the day by putting this song on repeat: ‘Islands’ by The Rocketboys. Listen to it, it’s [up on my tumblr](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/34986391876/the-rocketboys-islands). Feel free to hate me.

They were in a flat when it happened. James had been lounging about in bed, reading, when Q flopped down next to him, tapping his knee. James looked up to find a slim, black case being thrust at him. He put down his book and groaned.  
“Q, we don’t have another job for a week; no cases with things in yet.”

“You’ll like this one. I hope. Open it.” Q stretched his arm until the case was nearly touching James’ nose. Bond eyed him for a moment, trying to gauge the light smile tugging at his mouth, before sighing and sitting up.

“Fine, hand it over.” He snatched it from Q’s grasp without further ado and popped the lid to have a look. And a look he had. A rather long one. Not that he’d ever tell anyone, but, for all intents and purposes, James was gaping gormlessly.

Inside the case, on the usual stuffing of black rubber foam, there lay two rings. Simple, silver rings, about 3mm wide, with a thin line set-off in the middle all the way around. He checked the insides, there were no engravings yet.

James was trying. Truly, he was trying, but he couldn’t get a word out. He turned to look at Q, knowing that the man would know what he was thinking just from seeing his face.

Q smiled and cupped James’ cheek with his hand for a moment, stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “I know. You don’t have to say anything now. And I know we can’t do this officially. If we put these on, it wouldn’t be an engagement, more of an… impromptu wedding. And it wouldn’t be before God, or a registrar, just us, but... I just wanted you to know. We can do it whenever we’re ready.”

James thought about it. Thought about waiting, about drawing it out, about that feeling of being ready that never came anyway, not like this. He thought about making a grand gesture. But then, he found that he preferred their bed, sheets dusted and slightly scratchy with breadcrumbs from a messy breakfast hours ago. He preferred Q in his pyjamas, hair a mess of sex and sleep, regarding him with so much affection that it should have hurt.

He looked down at the rings again, one clearly smaller than the other. He reached out and traced his with a fingertip. It was cold to the touch, but strangely soft, in a way that silver rarely was. When he finally spoke, he was surprised his voice actually worked.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot. I’ll marry you right now.” With that, he scooped up the rings, chucking the case over his shoulder, and lunged, grabbing Q by the collar and pulling him close. “In sickness and in health,” he murmured against Q’s lips, then reached down and grasped his left hand. The ring slid on without a hitch. James offered his own left to Q, his ring resting on the palm.

Never taking his eyes off James’, Q took the ring, turned James’ hand, and slowly pushed it onto the fourth finger. “’Til death do us apart,” he breathed.

James framed Q’s face with his hands, ring now gleaming in the light coming in through the window next to the bed, and kissed him, hard and fast.

After a few minutes, he pulled back, and Q could see the beginnings of a smirk.

“If you say anything like ‘You may kiss the bride,’ you’ll hear from my lawyer in the morning.”

James merely grinned. “Yes, Mr Bond,” he drawled, and kissed him again.

 

Later, when they were naked and sweaty and just slightly out of breath, James lazily held up his hand. “What material is that? I thought it was silver, but it’s got a different weight.”

Q smiled. “I made them myself. It’s a high-resistance metal, the kind we use in the plating of your cars.”

James stared at him for a moment, then chuckled. “That’s romantic.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

Bond kissed the stupid grin right off his face at that. Pulling back for air, he asked, “What about the engravings?”

 

*

_04/11/16 – Time is my vessel – Q_

_04/11/16 – You’re my way back to sea – J_

*

 

Q had the luxury of wearing the ring pretty much all the time. No-one at MI6 asked him about it, it was just… there. James, on the other hand (no pun intended), had to take it off before he came to work. Q never said anything, but he enjoyed the way James scrambled into whatever bathroom he’d left it in to get it back on before they’d properly closed the door behind themselves. He’d once even stopped a very promising snog in the hallway—and when he’d come back, he’d kissed Q in a way that could only be described as filthy, running his thumb over the metal on his finger. When they’d pulled apart for air, James had sighed, “Better now.”

But as it was, they couldn’t be seen wearing matching rings, it was too dangerous. Q had been kidnapped more than once already, they weren’t keen on it happening again.

One day, however, James got into the lab, striding in with his hands in his pockets, giving Q a smirk. “Morning.”

“Good morning, 007. Can you hold this for me for a minute?”

When James reached out his left hand to take the tablet Q had been working with from him, Q nearly got a heart attack. He immediately looked up to check whether anyone was looking, then leaned in a little and hissed, “James, you blighter.”

“Hm?”

“Look at your left hand.”

“Whoops.”

“Precisely.”

Checking the perimeter himself, James swiftly tugged it off and let it slide into Q’s pocket. “Keep it safe for me,” he mumbled. Q nodded; and if he absently stroked his hand over the pocket of his cardigan from time to time over the next few days, then that was just another thing husbands did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: Engravings inspired by the line, “If time is my vessel/Then learning to love might be way back to sea,” from the song ‘Public Pervert’ by Interpol; and of course by the ship analogy Q draws between the battleship and accusations that Bond might be getting too old for this shit at the gallery.


	16. #16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Hana on tumblr. Still listening to The Rocketboys’ ‘Islands.’

One morning, James sneakily takes a picture of Q’s bare hip with his phone.

During the next mission, he finds himself with a bit of time on his hands, and since the next check-in is hours away, he roams the streets until he finds himself in front of a tattoo studio that he likes the look of.

 

*

 

As James enters the lab again three weeks later, exhausted and frustrated and feeling, for the first time in his life, positively gross with the grime and blood and mud sticking to his clothes and skin, Q isn’t there. He curses under his breath.

One of the interns—Audrey?—pokes her head around the corner of the door to an experiment chamber.

“Welcome back, 007. The boss is going to be right back, M called him up before you got here.”

He grunts at her, which, going by her beaming smile, is a big improvement in the way of getting a thank-you out of him. She goes back to her colleagues, leaving the door ajar, while he leans against Q’s desk, tinkering with a few gadget-y things lying around, and waits. He doesn’t particularly want to, but he can hear the interns’ conversation, and he might as well listen in a little.

“Bond’s back, guys.”

“Oh, no.”

“What? He’s not that bad today. I think he’s too beat to be much of an asshat right now.”

“No, it’s the sexual frustration! The UST levels were through the roof last time he was down here after such a long mission.”

James can hear Audrey laugh—it’s almost a cackle. “You’re right… I swear, tumblr would eat them alive.”

“Oh, they’d ship it!”

Bond makes a face. What the hell are they on about? Checking that no-one’s around, he uses Q’s screen and keyboard to call up a search engine and look up ‘tumblr’ and ‘shipping.’

Five minutes later, his head hurts.

 

*

 

Q finally takes him home half an hour later, and James has nearly forgotten all about OTPs and blowing holes into other people’s ships; because they’re standing in their bedroom, both naked and very, very happy to see each other, and Q’s eyes are glued to the identical tattoo on James’ own hip.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You sneaky bastard!”

“Like you can talk.”

Q laughs and then leans in to kiss James languidly. When he pulls back, he makes a face. “God, you’re finally back. I’m sorry, but I’m gonna attach myself to you and not let go for a few days.”

This reminds James of the comments the interns made about their sexual frustration, and he has to chuckle.

“What?”

James grins at Q and then shifts so he can bump their hipbones together, their tattoos flush against the other. “I ship us.”

The look on Q’s face is so priceless that Bond actually giggles.

“Who taught you about that?”

“Oh, I have my ways.”

 

*

 

The next time Q is at the lab, preparing for a mission, Q narrows his eyes at his interns, and then checks the search history on his computer—and groans.


	17. #17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “00Q prompt - James calls Q 'Vesper' during sex. ANGST PLS?”  
> It was really hard treating this as the angstfest it deserves to be, because it reminded me so much of an episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway that I kept cracking up while writing… so if you need something to cheer you afterwards, [head here for the vid](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/35030501775/in-reference-to-the-00q-prompt-i-answered-over), I’ve posted it on my tumblr.  
> AU from More of a Personal Statement, because my James would never do that. I hope.
> 
> Because that’s my fucking song of the day, this is properly set to The Rocketboys’ ‘Islands.’ Don’t worry, I’ll switch records tomorrow. And because I couldn’t decide which premise would work better—the two being fuckbuddies, or trying to have a proper relationship—I gave you both. Ha. So it’s ‘Two Times James Called Q ‘Vesper’ During Sex,’ really. I’ll shut up now.

**One:**

 

_I once said that you were a star_  
 _For me to wish upon_  
 _But I was wrong  
_ _For some time now, I’ve been distraught_

 

Q knew that what they were doing didn’t mean anything. They were fucking, plain and simple. They weren’t even friends with benefits, because their conversation never crossed the professional line. Their banter—was efficient foreplay. When Bond came back from a mission, bloodied and high on his own heroism (Q liked to call it imbecility), sometimes he took Q home and pounded into him, marking his neck with his teeth, and then left after getting one or two hours of sleep.

So, really, Q shouldn’t have been surprised when that one time 007 returned subdued and broody, when he took his time and treated Q almost gently, he called out another’s name as he came.

“Vesper.”

It wasn’t much more than a broken whisper, muttered into the skin of Q’s neck before Bond collapsed on top of him. He shouldn’t have been surprised. And yet—if Bond hadn’t already jerked him off, he wouldn’t have finished.

 

_And for lack of a better word  
_ _I’m not an island_

 

It shouldn’t have stung his pride. But then, how could it not, at least a little? What hurt more, though, was watching Bond drive himself into the ground. Watching him fall apart, bit by bit, in his embrace at night, when it wasn’t his embrace that 007 wanted. Q wasn’t in love with the man—he didn’t understand him, and he didn’t particularly care to. But he was drawn to him, and he was grateful for the distraction every now and then.

It happened again a month later, and that time Q still came all over Bond’s hand. He didn’t love him, but he did want to help him get what he wanted.

 

**Two:**

 

It had been a good day. James had come back from the mission only slightly the worse for wear, had come pick up Q at the lab, and together they’d made their way through London to James’ apartment. As soon as they’d arrived, James had started unbuttoning Q’s cardigan, and after that, it had been a short way towards the bedroom. They had been laughing.

Now, they were tangled into each other, moaning, with Q’s legs wrapped around James’ waist. James was thrusting into him at a near-frantic pace, and sweat had long started to bead on their skin.

James closed his eyes and dropped his head into the crook of Q’s neck, panting, biting and lapping at the skin, marking him. Somehow, they lost themselves in the rhythm.

“Vesper.”

Q felt more than heard the whisper against his skin, and the movement of his hips came to a stuttering halt. He pushed at James’ shoulder.

“What did you just say?”

 

_If there’s no truth, and if there’s no life_  
 _Then I’m fairly sure_  
 _I don’t wanna die  
_ _‘Cause I’ve tried hard most of the time_

 

“I—Q, I’m sorry.”

“Well, that’s… I can’t even _think_ —get off me!”

Bond slipped out of Q and sat back on his haunches, while Q drew himself up and inched back towards the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. James tried to reach for him, but he shook his head.

“No.”

“Please—”

“Let me think.”

“I’ll make tea.” James got up and went in search of his boxers. Pulling them on, he drew breath as if to say something else; but then he thought better of it and left the room towards the kitchen.

 

_And for lack of a better word  
_ _I’m not an island_

 

When he returned, Q was still sitting on the bed—fully dressed. Lowering his eyes, Bond padded over and handed him a mug of Earl Grey. He rounded the bed and sat on the other side, facing Q.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—well, of course I didn’t mean to; but I never thought I’d… Q, I’m over her.”

“Obviously, you’re not.”

“Q—”

“I can’t do this, James. I can’t do this and know that it isn’t what you want.”

“It is what I—”

“But it’s not what you _need_!” Q looked close to tears. “I wish I could, James. I wish I could be what you need, who you need; and I wish I could go on after this. But I’m selfish. I want you. Not your shadow.”

James nodded.

And just like that, it was over. Q put the mug of Earl Grey on the bedside table, untouched, and got up from the bed. He put a cold hand on James’ shoulder for a few seconds, squeezing lightly.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He turned towards the door, and he was almost through when James found his voice.

“Goodbye, Q.”

“Goodbye, 007.”

 

_When we die all alone_  
 _If you’re God, then take us home_  
 _But if you’re not, we’ll be waiting by and by_  
 _Because all our fathers have said_  
 _“We are prodigals at best.  
_ _And we will meet one day in that by and by.”_


	18. #18 [Truth or Dare]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by the 00Q fandom on tumblr.  
> Seriously, give the founding members a Skype chat, this is what happens: they cook up an idea, Lele then accosts me on twitter thus: “CHLOE JUST TALKED ABOUT A SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN OR MI6 TRUTH OR DARE PARTY FIC AND NOW YOU NEED TO WRITE IT”  
> Alrighty then. We’re acting as interfering interns again. Hello, crack!fic. (Also, I had to change a certain algorithm for this. You’ll see why.)

MI6 parties were legendary. One, for their rarity. Two, for their bat-shit insanity.

Approximately every seven years, all of the department heads got together with the Chief of Staff and decided to get everyone heroically sloshed. Absolutely hammered. Utterly, entirely pissed.

The Chief of Staff then took this proposition to M, who usually approved. A date was set and, barring international incidents, all the desks and conference rooms were cleared away on the wide expanse of the third floor, to prepare for the big night.

Oddly enough, internationally operating terrorists, as if sensing the Service’s need for booze and rock ‘n’ roll, generally decided to take a day off around the same time; sometimes even sparing a day or two for hangover recovery.

 

Everyone was invited, and almost everybody turned up voluntarily.

James Bond, oh wonder, had been dragged in by Tanner, relaying unequivocal threats from M to discontinue his 00 status unless he put in an appearance. While 007 had absolutely no conscious desire to see everyone from lab rats to supposedly genius analysts drink themselves into a stupor, he tagged along. He liked his license to kill more than he liked a quiet night in.

“Just one thing, though, Tanner,” he groused, “if anyone pukes on my shoes, I’m out.”

“Fair enough,” Tanner replied good-naturedly; and James decided there and then that a cheery Tanner wasn’t something he’d be able to tolerate sober.

 

Three hours later, the event was in full swing, and Bond was still there. Standing in a corner nursing a Martini, mind, but he was, unbelievably, still there. That may have had something to do with M and her standing threat. It may have had something to do with the pleasant surprise that the bartender (Jones from the second floor) was really rather good. It may also have had something to do with the fact that a perfectly disinhibited Q was currently busting his moves to Smash Mouth’s _All Star_.

Bond had the sneaking suspicion that the interns had spiked his liquor even further ( _again_ ) to get him to lose control—going by their flailing, they were definitely enjoying themselves (and where did that _owl_ in the corner hail from, for fuck’s sake?)—but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with them. Not with that view.

M sidled up to him, holding a tumbler of Scotch. “Having a good time, 007?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s a good thing the feeds from the security cameras on this floor are extra heavily encrypted tonight. If anyone managed to get their hands on the footage, there’d be enough blackmail material to topple three consecutive British governments one day into term.”

“Any chance I could have a copy?”

M glared at him over her glass. “You know, Bond, if you just bothered to ask him, I’m sure Q would gladly provide you with a private rendition.”

James raised an eyebrow at her. “Please, he doesn’t want an old ship as good as docked at the scrapyard,” he muttered before taking a sip.

Just then, the music changed to The Beatles’ _Twist and Shout_ , and some of Bond’s Martini just about went down the wrong pipe. ‘Good God,’ he thought, watching Q twisting and, indeed, shouting. ‘I’m in love with an idiot.’ The next sip of Martini almost sprayed through his nose. Where the hell had that come from?

M, who had been watching him nearly kill himself from the side, gave him a look that clearly said, ‘Dear boy, you are _toast_.’

 

The less than dulcet tones of Billy Talent’s _Devil on My Shoulder_ thrumming through the building, Bond suddenly found himself commandeered and in another corner of the room, sitting at a small table with M, Tanner, and Q. One of the interns had proclaimed, “TRUTH OR DARE time!” and, apparently, everyone in the room had been in agreement that their two highest-ranking bosses, the Quartermaster, and the “bessst bloody agent i’ the firm” would be the only suitable candidates. Q, who was too drunk to care, was smiling beatifically and blessedly quiet, while Tanner teetered on the edge between accidentally drunk and still sober enough to complete three request forms for paper clips in record time. M and Bond seemed the most alert people in the room, no matter how much they’d had to drink.

An empty bottle of rum was brought forth and placed in the middle of the table.

Q, sitting next to Bond on the right, was leaning slightly towards him while the interns were watching them like hawks, and James had the odd sense of foreboding that, sooner or later, he’d end up in his lap. He didn’t know whether he should be more disturbed by the fact that the owl from earlier was perched on one of the intern’s—Phil, was it?—shoulder, or by the discovery that the thought of Q in his lap in full view of the entire MI6 didn’t really bother him. At all.

 

“First round of four! Turn the bottle, please.” ‘Four?’ Bond thought. ‘If they’re planning on only doing four rounds, the bottle is clearly rigged to stop on each of us just once.’

Tanner obliged and after a few agonising turns, the bottle pointed at M.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” M responded directly.

“How many times have you come close to firing Bond?”

James smirked at her—he was wondering that himself, sometimes. Beside him, Q tipped a little further towards him, staring at M with curious eyes.

“Oh, about 23. And that’s just this year.”

Their audience let out an appreciative, “Ooh, burn,” and it took a while before a sense of quiet returned.

“Round two! Mr Tanner, would you?”

“Of course.”

The bottle spun. Against his will, anxiety began rising in Bond’s stomach; and when the bottle pointed at Tanner himself, he let out an unwilling sigh of relief. He was growing increasingly aware of Q’s body heat next to him, jumped up by alcohol and all that shaking his arse that he’d dared call dancing.

“Truth or Dare?”

“What the hell—dare!”

“Crack an egg on 007’s head.”

Bond glared at the interns. To his immense satisfaction, some of them actually cowered. Tanner got up and walked over to James.

“Mr Bond,” he grinned, proceeding to lay his fist sideways on the top of Bond’s head, whack it with the flat of his palm, and then work his fingertips through his hair in an imitation of egg yolk running over his scalp. James managed to keep a straight face throughout instead of wincing in disgust, but the audience snickered when one of his shoulders twitched involuntarily. Q was giggling next to him, and Bond didn’t know whether to grab him or push him off his chair.

“Round three!”

Tanner set the bottle in motion, and this time, lo and behold, it stopped on James. He sighed.

“Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

A titter went through the mass of interns, and the one appointed as master of the revels blushed.

“Using the name you had for your genitals as a child and your grandmother’s maiden name, what would be your porn star name?” Incredulous snorts of laughter could be heard from around the room.

James set his jaw and thought about refusing to answer. He thought about lying. But, really, that wouldn’t help any, either. So he assumed his best detached face and replied, deadpan, purposely not looking at Q, who was nearly going cross-eyed staring at him in utter drunk concentration: “Cock Hargreaves.”

He wasn’t flattering himself when he said that the crowd went wild. There was clapping, there was stamping, there was falling over, wheezing. James was pretty sure one of the interns even fainted—several others crowded around her, waving smelling salts. Well, at least they’d come prepared.

Again, it took a while before everyone calmed down, but James was a little too busy counting his blessings. He’d made it with at least most of his dignity intact; that was good enough for him. Most of the people in this room wouldn’t actually remember any of this in the morning, anyway. (Phones and cameras had been confiscated at the very beginning; M had made sure of that.)

Now, it was obviously Q’s turn. Meanwhile, the song changed and Bond vaguely recognised the opening of Nitzer Ebb’s _Kiss Kiss Bang Bang_. Good grief.

“Round four!”

Tanner worked his bottle-spinning magic, James relaxed minutely, M watched on, and Q wobbled in his seat. Predictably, the tip of the bottle pointed at him.

“Boss—Truth or Dare?”

“Dare!” came the immediate answer in a giddy rush, and Bond wanted to groan. Surely, it couldn’t get any worse?

“Sit on 007’s lap and whisper in his ear what you think would embarrass him most. Bonus points for touching him otherwise.”

Oh, but it could.

Swaying slightly, Q got up, and, entirely against his better judgement, Bond actually made the manoeuvre easier for him by pushing back his chair a little; which was met by little gasps from the crowd. Q grinned and, surprisingly gracefully, hauled his leg over to straddle James, putting his hands on Bond’s chest to steady himself. James’ hands itched to move to his waist to keep him from wriggling around too much, but he figured it would only make it more difficult to keep himself in check.

He was proved right when Q leaned forward and his hot breath brushed first James’ cheek and then his ear. Knowing that M was watching each of his reactions, he willed himself not to let on; but, oh, Christ, he’d need a cold shower soon. Followed by a night in some obliging butcher’s meat freezer. He could _feel_ Q wet his lips with his tongue before he spoke.

“I know you’ve been lusting after me, 007.” James clenched his jaw, but Q wasn’t done yet. “And I wish you’d finally do something about it.” Q pulled back and James was starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel when the Quartermaster leaned closer again and bumped their noses together. The room roared, glass smashed, and Bond was pretty sure he heard M let out a cackle.

She was right. He was toast.

 

*

 

Somehow, James had managed to extract himself and Q from the party soon thereafter. He took the boy wonder home and put him to bed, despite his protests and efforts to convince James to take his clothes off.

“We’re not doing anything until you’re sober,” he informed him grumpily, tucking the covers in around him so he couldn’t move.

“Jaa-aaaames,” Q actually whined, and Bond glared at him, which at least shut up him up. Only for a minute, though: “At least… stay?”

Bond sighed. If it had been merely the alcohol talking at the party, he might as well face the music—i.e. instant mortification and possible throwing-up, followed by a swift severing of their acquaintance and Q moving to Switzerland—right the next morning. So he shrugged, nodded, and acquiesced when Q managed to extract his arm and pat the mattress beside him, muttering, “Don’t you dare take the sofa.”

“It’ll be your funeral in the morning,” Bond prophesied darkly and took off his suit jacket, tie, shoes, and socks. Slipping underneath the covers, he didn’t protest when Q squished himself against his side. “Fine,” he muttered, whether to himself or Q’s insistent wriggling, he didn’t know; and wrapped his right arm around Q’s shoulders. “Now go the fuck to sleep.”

“Mm-mh-pf,” was all he got in reply.

 

*

 

The next morning, he awoke to the sensation of being stared at. He cracked open an eye and found Q, propped up on his elbow, smiling crookedly, watching him.

“You stayed.”

“You’re staring. Weirdo,” Bond shot back, but he didn’t kid himself, the affection in his tone was blatant and non-apologetic.

“I’m just enjoying the view as any sane person would,” Q replied, and Bond narrowed his eyes at him.

“You shouldn’t be this chipper. You should be hugging the bowl right now, pleading for the world to end with your head in the toilet.”

“Ah, but Mr Bond,” Q grinned. “One is not always as drunk as one lets others believe.”

James was still processing the implications of that when Q leaned in to kiss him.

_Toast._


	19. #19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [Inkie (countermeasures)](http://countermeasures.tumblr.com) on tumblr: “Teddy bear.” [She also provided me with a bit of a plot outline in an email, which I’ve shamelessly used.]  
> For Inkie, because Inkie is flawless. Now, LET ME DROWN YOU ALL IN FLUFF.

The first time it happens, James knows it’s because Q is still peeved by what he’d said after the last mission, when James had presented him with the scorched remains of his most recent Walther:

‘Come now, Q, don’t look at me as if I’d ripped the head off of your favourite teddy bear.’

If Q’s withering glare hadn’t been enough of a clue that alluding to the age difference between them on top of everything else was a bad idea, this definitely is.

James opens his suitcase and stares a bit at something the he definitely hadn’t packed. He plucks the small teddy bear from between his neatly folded shirts and regards it for a moment. It’s a simple, furry, light brown teddy with a cheery smile, pink paws, and black beady eyes. It has been about thirty-two years since James counted a teddy bear among his possessions, and now one of the little fellows has followed him to Borneo. James huffs, then shoves the teddy into one of the inner pockets of his suitcase and starts unpacking his clothes.

Five minutes later, the feed in his ear crackles into life, and he doesn’t say anything. He will not suddenly develop a fondness for teddy bears, or even mention them, just because Q is a vindictive, hopeless nutcase that he happens to be smitten with. Besides, he has a feeling that, if M caught them bickering about teddy bears while they were supposed to be working, she’d suspend them both on the spot.

 

When James returns home, he arrives at his flat before Q is done debriefing; so when he unpacks and finds that blasted teddy bear again, he shoves it into a drawer and decides to forget about it. Q doesn’t ask.

*

The next time James unzips his suitcase in a luxurious hotel suite at the other end of the world, he swears at the room in general. How Q manages to get his hands on his case just before he left in the mornings without him noticing is beyond him; especially since they are usually quite busy kissing each other goodbye until the last minute. (James doesn’t like rituals or farewells, but with jobs such as theirs, a peck on the cheek and a ‘Have a good day, hon,’ doesn’t really cut it; and he knows he’d regret dying without having snogged Q into oblivion before he left. The pecks on the cheek are for when they’d managed not to die.)

Squished in with his clothes and a couple of dossiers is another teddy bear, and as James picks it up to examine it, he realises that it actually looks an awful lot like Q. It’s got glasses, chequered trousers, and a blue cardigan—all that’s missing is the bird’s nest of black hair. It’s bigger than the last one, about 8 inches from head to paw, but it’s smiling almost shyly.

James sighs, wondering what to do with the little guy. It’s almost 11pm and he’s going to go to sleep in a minute anyway to prevent jetlag (not that he ever gets that anymore, but just in case). The last check-in was two hours ago and he’s not expecting to hear from Q for another 24 hours, due to the deep-cover nature of the job he’ll have to do in the morning. That thought never sits well with him, though he doesn’t let on. He makes a face at the bear in his hand and then, out of impulse, puts it on the nightstand. Its limbs are moveable, so he adjusts the legs until the bear sits comfortably; then steps back. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done.

He unpacks the rest of his wardrobe and goes straight to bed, pausing when he leans over to turn off the lights. Q—the teddy, he corrects himself, is smiling at him silently, and James shakes himself before casting the room into darkness. He will not say goodnight to a teddy bear.

He won’t say good morning, either.

*

James is in Q’s flat, not even bothering to unpack his things. Again, Q has been kept at MI6 longer than James himself—it’s M’s way of punishing them. He doesn’t know for what yet, but he’s sure it is—and so James is left to his own devices until further notice. Q texted him that he’d be late and not to wait up. James is completely knackered, and as much as he wants to jump Q’s bones and ravage him as soon as he comes through the door, he knows his body’s laughing at him even as he thinks about it.

So, instead, he settles into bed, intent on catching up on a few hours of sleep before Q gets in. When he’s under the covers, snug and warm, however, sleep won’t come; and James turns on his back, sighing in frustration.

“What is it now?” he grumbles at himself. It feels like something’s missing—well, of course something’s missing, he’s in a familiar bed after days of getting shot at and buried alive and there’s no Q in his arms; of course something’s not right. He growls at the back of his throat. He’ll just have to wait then, he thinks, when, suddenly, he has an idea. He wants to mentally slap himself for thinking it, but he still gets up and pads towards his suitcase in the corner.

 

When Q finally gets in five hours later, shuffling his feet and yawning as if there were prizes to win, he makes his way right to the bedroom to check on James. The mission had been hard, though not necessarily a disaster, and he knows James probably conked out the moment his head hit the pillow.

What Q isn’t expecting, however, is the sight before him as he pushes open the door.

Curled into the covers, there’s James, sleeping like a log; and there's a teddy bear tightly locked in his arms against his chest.

“Would you look at that,” Q whispers to himself and steps closer quietly. He sits down on the edge of the bed and watches James sleep for a few minutes before reaching out, brushing a hand through his short hair. It should be dangerous; waking a 00-agent out of a deep slumber like this, but James is so attuned to Q doing this that he just snaps awake and relaxes almost immediately. Blue, slightly bleary eyes meet Q’s, and James smiles and goes to say something—before remembering how exactly he’s fallen asleep. He chances a look towards his chest, as if hoping that the teddy might have recognised the absurdity of the situation and toddled off towards the nearest drawer; but no such luck. Q’s teddy look-alike is firmly snuggled against him, and when James looks back up at Q, his expression can only be described as sheepish.

“Um,” he begins. Q just leans down and kisses him, effectively saving him from explaining himself when it really isn’t necessary.

*

The next time James goes on a mission, he packs the teddy bear himself.


	20. #20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this has been requested so many times, by lusiphurmalache and proffesionalfangirl and many anons, that I’m having trouble keeping all of the messages in my askbox under one hat, so I’ve taken the liberty of converging all of this into another double feature! I know this doesn’t cover every angle that each of these requests opens up, but I can’t write this seven different times; or I’d bore myself out of my skull, to be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double feature, #1 “Could you do something where Q is badly injured protecting Bond, or poisoned, while on a job, and even though badly hurt/injured/sick, he still finishes the decryption, or something.. I dunno, but he collapses at the end?” | “Q gets ill during a mission. Like seriously hospital ill, but he hides it in order to finish the mission. He collapses as soon as he knows Bond is safe.” |“Actually, I kind of just want you to shoot Q. He's so pretty, I want him to be miserable and in pain. (Does that make me a bad person?)”
> 
> Double feature, #2 “Q gets seriously hurt somehow and James has to look after him.” | “Another mission involves days and days of no sleep for all involved. Bond comes home relatively unscathed, but Q manages to get very ill. Bond looks after him.” | “Could you write some Q whumpage, please?” | “00Q, James is forever getting hurt, we know, so Q has lots of comfort to give, we assume. What if Q is the one recovering, possibly badly and grumpily?”
> 
> You are evil, evil people. I love you.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Not even for using AFI’s ‘Prelude 12/21’ for the first part of this—you can listen to it on my tumblr.

**Part One:**

_This is what I brought you,_  
 _This you can keep._  
 _This is what I brought,_  
 _You may forget me._  
 _I promise to depart; just promise one thing:  
_ _Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._

This time, James hadn’t left Q’s side. They’d gone into this one on their own, with no bodyguards there to shield Q as he typed at breakneck speed; so James was now standing beside him, a gun in each hand, keeping an eye on their surroundings. They were in a giant lab, bigger than Q’s at MI6, with stairs leading to the upper levels; and there were far too many possibilities of someone sneaking up on them than Bond was comfortable with—they were sitting ducks.

As if on cue, a bullet struck the computer terminal about ten inches from Q’s flying hands, which didn’t even falter. James swivelled around towards the sound of the gun shot, pressing himself to Q’s back to shield him. He’d raised his right hand and fired a shot right between the shooter’s eyes before the guy had time to aim a second time. A traitorous clanging came from the left, and Bond disposed of another one trying to sneak up on them three seconds later.

“Why aren’t they sending in ten all at once to make us look like Swiss cheese?” Q asked, not averting his eyes from the multiple screens flashing in front of him.

“Shut up and type,” Bond growled, surveying the area, scanning for moving shadows.

“What, I’m just curious,” Q shot back, his typing quickening in pace. “That’s poor strategy.”

“You’re forgetting that you blew half of them up earlier, and that the other half’s mostly running around like headless chickens after I shot their daddy.”

“Still, there have got to be enough to—”

Q was cut off by James forcibly pushing him to the ground and crouching down above him, effectively shielding them behind the terminal. Blue eyes met brown.

“Will you shut it now? I’m trying to work.”

_This is what I brought you,  
_ _This you can keep.  
_ _This is what I brought,  
_ _You may forget me.  
_ _I promise you my heart, just promise to sing—  
_ _Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._  

Bond didn’t wait for an answer as he straightened up enough to peek over the terminal and fired two rounds at the guards advancing on them. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the deafening noise of gunfire, bullets being expelled from their casings at enough speed to tear through clothing, skin, and bones; the soft click of triggers pulled at the same time followed by the cacophony of metal hitting steel and glass—and flesh. Judging by the sounds, Q could map out their trajectories in his head.

Q waited for James to give him the all-clear by nudging him with his foot and got back up while the agent let the empty clips clatter to the ground and dug two new magazines from his jacket pocket; not even blinking at the rising body count around them.

“Those were the ten you asked for,” he grunted; and Q had to suppress a grin as he went back to the terminal, Bond stepping up behind him again.

For a few minutes, he was actually able to work quietly, James’ steady breathing in his ear keeping time for him as he performed an intricate dance on the keyboard; decrypting and encrypting, unwrapping data packages, throwing them onto a huge heap of lines and lines of binary, and then virtually setting fire to it. They were here to wreck this thing, and he was going to bloody well do just that.

He’d just finished the thought when time did something funny: it sped up and slowed down all at once.

It sped up as adrenaline surged through his body as a door burst open behind them and Q felt James twist around to meet their visitors with a smile and a bullet to crack open their skulls.

It slowed down as Q, out of the corner of his eye, saw another guard throw himself off one of the stairs, aiming at James’ half-turned back. If Q had had the time, his brow would have knit in confusion before smoothing out—of course they were aiming at James. Take out the blunt instrument; keep the genius alive to reverse the damage. His eyes widened—he stopped typing.

Time slammed back into place as the bullet slammed into Q.

_This is what I thought,_  
 _I thought you'd need me._  
 _This is what I thought, so think me naive._  
 _I'd promise you a heart you'd promise to keep.  
_ _Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._

His calculations had been exact.

That was why it didn’t surprise Q when he felt a red-hot streak of pain soar through his right shoulder, knocking him back into James.

That didn’t mean that James was entirely prepared to find Q sinking to his knees behind him, blood already soaking his shirt and cardigan, eyes screwed shut behind his glasses. Face twisted with rage, James emptied an entire clip into the man responsible. Q should have thought of that.

James tucked the guns away, turned back, and bent down, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist and hauling him up, supporting him with his own body. Q imagined the lean strings of muscle moulding themselves to his back.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bond bellowed, and his voice was furious and rough.

“You’ve just wasted at least five bullets,” Q ground out, and his mind was screeching as if someone had cranked up the amp.

“Are you finished?” Q knew James didn’t mean, ‘finished reviewing my assassination style.’

“Not yet. A few steps closer.” Q winced as James pushed them forward a couple of paces until he could reach the keyboard again. Fire flared in his shoulder every time he had to move his arm to reach out and punch a button on the console. He felt James push his nose into his neck briefly before releasing one arm from around Q’s torso and going for his gun. James’ other hand remained firmly pressed into Q’s stomach, keeping him upright as the agent’s knees dug into his thighs in case his legs buckled underneath him. Blood was running down his arm, dripping from his sleeve onto the keys, making them slippery. He pressed his lips together and kept at it, until—

“Done,” he breathed, and at last the blood loss, the pain, and the adrenaline caught up with him, rushing past the wall of concentration he’d built up in his head. He slumped forward in James’ one-armed embrace, his left hand slamming into the terminal as he tried to keep himself steady. “Get us out of here.”

He could feel James turn him around in his arms, could hear him bark at him to stay conscious, could feel a hand slide into his curls and tug sharply, could feel teeth biting at his jaw. He could feel James’ heart beating, he heard rapid fire.

_Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep._

He had no memory of James carrying him out.

 

**Part Two:**

“Q, we talked about this: no laptop in bed while your arm’s still in the sling.”

“I can’t remember agreeing to anything!”

“No, that would be because you were on morphine at the time.”

“Exactly! You of all people should know better than to extract promises from someone who’s heavily medicated.”

“Q, listen to me: I don’t care if you were on magic mushrooms; that laptop stays out of this room until the wound is healed.”

“How is it that you never seem to listen to anything a doctor tells you, but suddenly you’re an expert?”

“I do listen, Q. I just don’t give a shit if there’s more important things to do.”

“I have more important things to do than lie here!” Q all but squawked in indignation, waving his healthy arm at the laptop clutched in James’ hand. Bond bent down to kiss his cheek.

“No, you don’t.”

He then left the room, utterly unfazed by Q’s threats of dismemberment.

*

“You are _not_ going to feed me.”

Bond snorted and nearly dropped the tray as he bent over, laughing, at the image of him feeding Q soup, the tech whizz scowling at him all the while as if trying to kill him with looks alone. He came back up, chuckling.

“No, you’re right, I’m not.”

He positioned the tray over Q’s lap and then rounded the bed, settling in on top of the covers on his side and picking up the newspaper he’d brought with him.

“Are you going to watch me eat?”

“No, I’m going to read.”

“Are you going to _supervise_ me eating?”

“Possibly.”

“ _James_.”

“ _Q_.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? Might I remind you that the last time I had to spend a week confined to the bed with a broken leg, you barely let me out of your sight?”

“I let you walk about!”

James made a guttural sound of frustration. “For the love of—,” he interrupted himself and looked at his hands in his lap, clenched around the paper. He wasn’t good with words, so he never said it. Never said how he’d felt, carrying Q down endless flights of stairs, yelling at him to keep awake. Never said how he’d stood in the gallery at medical, watching the doctors operate on his shoulder, scraping the bullet out and trying to save every sinew, every nerve he’d need to keep doing his job. Never said how he’d stared at him while sitting next to his bed, waiting for him to wake up from the narcosis, not daring to look away. Never said how it bothered him that Q had to go through this with him so much more often, never said how many times he’d cursed him for making him lose sight of his professionalism and loved him all the more for it.

“Sod it,” he growled, threw the paper towards their feet, and hauled himself up until he was kneeling next to Q. And then, across the tray with the soup—actual bloody soup, still lightly simmering, with croutons in it that were getting soggy—and across the steaming mug of tea, he kissed Q fiercely. Q arched into him as best he could, his left hand coming up to curl into the collar of James’ t-shirt. When they pulled back, Q was smiling.

“I’m glad I’m not dead, too.”

“Perfect,” Bond growled, then cleared his throat. “Eat. I’ll read.” He picked up the paper again and let himself fall back against his pillow.

“Read to me? Just the funny ones.”

James hummed in agreement, already scanning the page.

 

They fell asleep hours later, with James’ arms wrapped around Q’s middle, head resting on his stomach; and Q’s hand carding through James’ hair.


	21. #21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “00Q prompt - Questions James actually decided to ask.” [Basically a companion piece to 'Unintended.' Also, AO3, your way of dealing with hyperlinks is driving me insane.]  
> *throws fluffballs through the air*  
> The Bond dictionary: courtesy of Inkie, who shouted at me in an email after #20 and squeaked over James kissing instead of talking (again), and Q knowing what he meant anyway.

At first, Q isn’t even aware James is doing it. It starts with little things, mumbled late at night or early in the morning—strategically chosen, Q realises, because that’s when he’s sleepy and pliant in James’ embrace, not at all Quartermasterly sharp; when his Bond dictionary is half-closed and too heavy to pick up.

“Were you always this cheeky?” And it could have been just a spontaneous reaction to Q pressing his nose against James’, making them both go cross-eyed at five in the morning.

“Let me guess, you read all of those ‘Wizard Potter’ books the night they came out, too.” And it could have been just exasperation at seeing Q curled up with the latest _Doctor Who_ novel when he comes back from HQ.

“Were you never afraid of shadows in the dark?” And it could have been just because Q was giggling and pointing out that the freshly cleaned suit hanging from the back of the door bears an uncanny resemblance to Slenderman in the moonlight; and that the shadows thrown across the wall by the backlit trees outside make it look like Nosferatu is creeping up on them, claws extended.

“When was the last time you saw your family?” And it could have just been prompted by the stack of letters James retrieved from a PO box across the city at Q’s request when he’s got the flu and can’t go himself. Q sometimes shows James some of the letters from his sister; and as soon as he ends up mentioning James to her in one of his hastily scribbled replies, she starts adding little postscripts for James to read himself. He never says, but Q knows it means something to the man without a family; to be getting short messages from a fifteen-year-old girl that invariably begin and end ‘Dear James,’ and ‘Zoe, x,’ and sometimes, ‘Thank you for making my brother happy.’

“How does your family deal with what you do?” And now Q knows. Knows that James has been asking the questions Q offered him so long ago all along.


	22. #22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by LadyGinger on AO3: “Sequel please, where his memory slowly comes back... Perhaps Q helps him to remember...”  
> My poor darlings!

It had been two months now. Two months of endless psych evaluations, lie detector tests, association games. Two months of constant probing into Bond’s mind and memory, to figure out how much had come back after his four-month stint in Greece. After Q had found him and brought him back home.

Q hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said he’d gotten into trouble for it—he’d only been able to travel to Greece because he’d been on suspension. His last act of abusing MI6 resources had been to pull the report from the British embassy in Athens, before M had been forced to put him on leave.

He hadn’t known whether he still had a job when they’d come back, but waltzing into HQ side by side with James a week later had been the most satisfying moment of his career.

And now, he sometimes found James standing in the living room, or the kitchen, several times a day, an absent look on his face, staring at nothing before snapping himself out of it, focusing on Q, and saying things like, ‘I just remembered the time I found you asleep on the floor, your face lying in a puddle of Earl Grey, and I nearly had a heart attack because I thought you’d been shot.’

The best and worst had been when James had woken Q up in the middle of the night, shaking his shoulder gently, and whispered, ‘I just remembered the first time I told you I loved you.’

‘I just remembered…’ Those words didn’t always mean good things. A lot of the time, they also meant death and loss and pain; and Q wanted to scream and tear books from the shelves the night he found James curled into himself on the sofa with bloodshot eyes and freezing hands. ‘I just remembered Vesper.’

When James remembered how someone had come and told him his parents had died in a mountain climbing accident, Q woke up with a wet patch on his pyjama top, the fabric clinging to his shoulder, the bed next to him empty.

But then, James suddenly dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter, shaking with laughter. ‘I just remembered that time you got your feet tangled into your stupid cables at the lab and nearly landed flat on your face in front of the Prime Minister; and I had to catch you and not tell anyone that you’d been dropping books and cutlery all morning!’

They had to be sure that this wouldn’t happen on missions, that James wouldn’t suddenly blank and get distracted by memories slotting into place; or that he wouldn’t _lose_ his memory again without warning. So Q had to help him, and they played 20 questions about things that had happened in James’ life all night when they couldn’t sleep; Q urged James to keep pen and paper on him to write everything down that suddenly floated into his head, because sometimes memories wouldn’t come back fully formed.

Some mornings, James didn’t know why he still bothered. He felt like himself again, slowly, but that was the catch, wasn’t it? You can’t remember what you can’t remember you’d forgotten. He looked sideways at Q, and he knew there were pieces missing. Things that he felt he should be able to explain, but wasn’t. He’d known he loved him the moment he first recognised him, but it wasn’t until weeks later that he fully remembered why.

He knew he might not be able to work for MI6 again, at least not in the field. He still went in every day, working with people he remembered and some he didn’t; and when he didn’t, he sometimes felt the need to ask when they’d started working there. He still teased himself with the chance of coming back in spite of everything; and even if his own conviction that he would waned with every week that passed, he knew that the soft kisses good morning Q pressed to his cheek as soon as he woke up meant that the hope of working together again was what kept them both going.


	23. #23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “For your Series Of Requests could you do one where Bond gets Q a teddy bear?”  
> You bet!

This was so against all the rules of professionalism Bond had ever set himself.

He was in Manhattan, of all places, en route to a discreet assassination. He had ten minutes to spare, and when he suddenly did a double-take at one of the shop windows he was passing, it didn’t take him long to realise that, the gravity of the situation be damned, he was bloody well going to do what he liked.

“007?” Q queried in his ear as he heard the quaint jingle of a shopkeeper’s bell over the comms.

“Don’t worry, won’t be a minute,” James replied, careful not to let on. He dug his phone out of his pocket and assumed it as a cover as he approached the counter. Miming to the elderly woman smiling at him that he was on the phone to the receiver of the gift and therefore couldn’t talk freely, he evaded Q’s questions as creatively as he could to fool both of them at the same time. One wasn’t a secret agent for nothing.

Half an hour later, he shot a man in the head and went back to his hotel.

*

“What on earth _were_ you doing, anyway?” Q asked the next morning, when James stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel while Q stood at the sink, brushing his teeth.

James smirked. “You’ll see.”

“James,” Q threatened teasingly, “don’t make me look up all shops along your route and cross-reference them with your GPS position when you made the detour.”

“You haven’t already done that?” Bond teased back, but immediately regretted it when he saw Q’s face fall. Privacy was important to Q—hell, it was important to them both; and Q never wilfully abused his privileges, not with James, nor with any other agent. He stepped up to Q and wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling him against his chest. “Hey. I know you wouldn’t.”

Q smiled at the sincerity in his voice and continued brushing his teeth after dropping a quick, toothpaste kiss to James’ cheek.

James grinned and disentangled himself, intent on getting dry and into clean clothes. As he left the bathroom, he heard Q whine inarticulately behind him, but all he threw over his shoulder was his towel and another, “You’ll see.”

*

A week later, they were preparing for a mission in the morning when Q turned towards his desk to grab a few gadgets he’d been working on and found James standing across from him, hands behind his back, looking suspiciously like an excited little puppy. It was a look rarely seen on the man, and Q didn’t quite know whether to get excited, too, or to run, screaming, for the hills.

“What is it?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Beg pardon?”

“C’mon, Q, close your eyes.”

“Fine. You’re being a right little shit this morning, aren’t you?”

“If it serves the purpose,” was all James offered as a reply, and Q rolled his eyes behind closed lids.

He heard something rustling and knew that that had to be the sound of James burying something in the depths of his bag.

“Now, you can go on packing, but no peeking at the battleground that is the bottom of that bag before I’m in Monte Carlo, alright?”

Q snapped his eyes open. “James, what have you done?”

Again, all James did was smile. “You’ll see.”

Q wanted to strangle him.

*

He grabbed his bag from his office and rooted around in it as soon as James had reported back from Monte Carlo a few hours later. When his hand brushed something soft and sort of plushy, Q’s eyes widened. _He wouldn’t._

What he then extracted from the bottom of his bag was a teddy bear, about as tall as the one not-so-secretly named Q that he knew for a fact was lounging about in James’ hotel suite right now; but this one was light brown, and there were tufts of golden fur on top of its ears. The best bit, though, was that the bear was wearing a sharp, dark blue suit and aviator shades. The agent had found his bear.

Q knew that he couldn’t let it sit atop his desk while he worked—even if he managed to convince the others that it was a present from his sister, the resemblance was too marked to be mistaken. So he put the bear back into his bag and placed it underneath his desk carefully. Knowing that it was there would be enough for now.

 

When the interns found Q asleep at his desk three days later, completely out of it after continuously saving Bond’s arse in one of the hairiest missions in a while, they took a moment to blink at the small teddy bear, snug in the crook of his arm. They then draped a blanket over him and left the door to the office ajar as a sign to Bond when he returned.


	24. #24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less of a request, more of an idea I had; but I’m putting it with these because it’s a bit of a dark!character AU.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Sofia Talvik, [‘Beautiful Naked’](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/35364477620/sofia-talvik-beautiful-naked-blue-moon).

_He kisses me blind_   
_He twists my arm_   
_He holds me so tight_   
_He does me harm_

The first time it happened, James didn’t think about it. Q was straddling him, riding his cock, when he pulled back and pulled at James’ shoulders. James sat up underneath him, changing the angle of his thrusts, and he was going to put his hands on Q’s back when the younger man grabbed his wrists and twisted his arms so they were locked behind his back, elbows pointing outward. The movement brought their chests flush against each other, and it was only the arch of his back and Q’s thighs locked around his hips that kept him upright. The strain of his muscles caused James to groan, and Q gripped his wrists harder, mouth descending on his lips, hard enough to bruise.

_He says, 'Take off your clothes;  
'You're so beautiful naked'_

“Don’t be shy, 007,” Q had said to him that night, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his voice calm and condescending. “Oh, come, take off your clothes—you’re so beautiful naked.”

_The expression that stands_   
_Upon his face_   
_Unhearable words_   
_On lips that phrase_

They’d somehow ended up in Q’s flat after a mission. James suspected it had something to do with adrenaline and dying and the need to break something or be broken; and standing across from Q then, he wasn’t sure which it was going to be.

_'Oh, come, take off your clothes,_   
_'You're so beautiful naked'_   
_He never told me he loved me_   
_He never told me he cared for me_   
_He never told me he didn't_   
_~~So I believe~~_

Ever since then, James came back. Again. And again.

With Q, James didn’t undress as he usually did: hastily, seeking release, or lazily, undressing to impress. There was no awe on Q’s face, no smug smile on James’. Most of the time, Q was still dressed by the time James stood before him without a stitch on him. Q would step closer, appraising, sometimes running a slender hand over new scars.

James wondered when that one new mark on him would be one too many.

_He's lying so still_   
_Like he was dead_   
_I gather my clothes_   
_And leave his bed_   
_I whisper, 'Stay as you are;_   
_'You're so beautiful naked'_

James never stayed—what they were doing didn’t include breakfast.

The first time, he’d put his aching arms through the sleeves of his shirt, looking at Q’s sleeping form over his shoulder. The need to break something was gone. It had never existed, not in this room. That left the other, and James wondered whether Q would succeed.

He wanted him to.

_He never asked me to linger_   
_He never told me to stay away_   
_All he ever tells me_   
_Is, 'Take off your clothes;_   
_'You're so beautiful naked.'_


	25. #25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion to #22.

James opened the door to Q’s flat with the key and the code that he’d been given ages ago. The motions came as naturally to him now as unlocking his own flat did—initially, he’d been surprised that the code never changed, but then it had occurred to him that Q had simply programmed one for him to use alone. He pushed his way inside, careful not to jostle the take-away too much, and then let the door close behind him. It gave the quiet thump it always did as the enforced locks engaged automatically, and James nodded to himself as he heard them click.

The flat was dark, as he had expected it to be. Q was probably passed out on the bed or the sofa, a book on his chest and a mug of tea precariously dangling from his hand; having tried to wait up for James, but, as it happened every so often, failing miserably. James would have to wake him; and he was debating which way best to go about it as he put the Chinese he’d got from their favourite place two streets over on the small table in the hallway, before taking off his coat and hanging it next to Q’s horrible parka. (He’d been trying to sneakily get rid of it, but it had always magically reappeared. Bond wouldn’t be surprised if, like most of the things its owner tinkered with on a daily basis, it had a bit of a mind of its own.)

James quickly shook the encroaching winter chill from his bones before picking up the carrier bag and turning left towards the living room and kitchen, not needing to put on any lights; he knew his way.

He dropped the bag.

In the pale light coming through the windows, he could see Q’s prone form on the floor, limbs spread out awkwardly. Surrounding his head, there was a dark stain on the light carpet.

Forcing his breathing to stay level, James’ mind rushed through the possibilities. The shot couldn’t have come from outside, the windows were Q’s creations, a bullet would bounce off of it like a rubber ball—he’d seen it. There was no palpable trace of anyone else being in the flat right now, but for all James knew, they could be hiding in the cupboard to finish him off next. But how would they have come in?

His code. The one Q never changed, the one that, if someone had managed to crack his security system, would be the easiest to find.

Figuring it out had taken him less than three seconds. Already James’ gut clenched and his stomach heaved. His pulse sped up, reeling out of control; and before he could command his right hand to finally go for his off-duty weapon, his legs propelled him forward and he rushed towards Q, caution be damned.

He dropped down on his knees next to him; his hands lost for the first time at the handling of a broken body, hovering over him, not knowing where to touch, how to turn. He could see the right side of Q’s face, turned towards him. James didn’t want to see the other side covered in blood, didn’t want to know where the bullet had hit.

He reached for Q’s hand instead, and found it still warm, clamping down on the voice in his head that said, ‘Everything he touches seems to wither and die.’

Q’s hand was clutching his stupid Scrabble mug, and there was tea still leaking out of it, running towards—towards Q’s head. Surrounding it, running into the fibres of the carpet.

Frantically, James squeezed two fingers between Q’s neck and shoulder, feeling for his pulse. It was there, regular and strong, and only now did James register the soft breaths, slightly muffled, and the way Q’s back rose in time with the air being sucked into and pushed out of his lungs.

He would never live this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon on tumblr: “Can you please write the story behind Bond's memory of ‘I just remembered the time I found you asleep on the floor, your face lying in a puddle of Earl Grey, and I nearly had a heart attack because I thought you’d been shot.’?”  
> ‘Everything he touches seems to wither and die’—one of Dominic Greene’s lines in _Quantum of Solace_.


	26. #26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [ohhaithereguise](http://ohhaithereguise.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “Darling, we need a bamf!slightly unhinged!Q here. Yes, alright, he was kidnapped and Bond went super!agent mode. But how long can he listen to Bond being tortured without snapping? In that scary, cold, calm, calculating way, he manipulates the electronics in that building and annihilates/mutilates every one of those bastards. No-one says anything, but they all knew, they all knew. Bond and Q are at their best and most dangerous, lethal, when together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found a way into this prompt after seeing [this fantastic gifset](http://dabidblaise.tumblr.com/post/35416262527) made by dabidblaise on tumblr, and while listening to the soundtrack to TGWTDT. The piece I’m drawing on is this: [‘Hidden in Snow’](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/35432012173/trent-reznor-atticus-ross-hidden-in-snow-the) by Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross, up on my tumblr. (Give it a listen, it’s amazing!)

There was no rage. There was no fury.

Perhaps there was too much of it. Or just enough.

They had Bond on a rack. A good old-fashioned, wooden rack, tearing him limb from limb, slowly, steadily. Q could hear the cogs clicking as the wheels were turned. Another quarter of an inch, and James groaned in pain, panting through the jolts of adrenaline. No matter what they asked him, he never said a word.

They’d had him for three hours already. They’d put knives to his body, opening his skin—just millimetres, like paper cuts, criss-crossing his back and chest. They’d snapped his wrists and taken at least three fingernails. Q knew this because they explained each step as they were working on James. They knew he was listening.

They shouldn’t have.                                                                     

 

Everyone in the lab was silent. Watching him as he stood at his desk, listening, fingertips resting on the keys just so.

As the fourth hour dawned, he turned towards M. She gave a nod. Q went to work.

The movements of his fingers quick as lightning, but precise, never faltering, he worked his way into the building. They had thought of everything—their security system was sophisticated, he couldn’t harness their cameras or alarms to his use without alerting them and endangering Bond further. Well. They’d thought of almost everything.

He didn’t need cameras, he didn’t need keys to locks he didn’t need to open.

Hacking into the national grid was easy. All he needed was an outlet.

They’d said they wanted to shave Bond’s head soon. With a voltage of over 15,000V running through the house, Q was looking forward to hearing them try.

The first screams that weren’t James’ sounded through the house while he was still busy building an electromagnetic field that would render any and all metal surfaces impossible to touch. Including doorknobs.

They dropped around Bond like flies, trapped in their own torture chamber. Q could hear him curse under his breath.

He smiled.


	27. #27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “For the prompt thing: since you wrote that lovely Avengers/Skyfall crossover, would it be possible for you to write an AU one that indulges my having-sex-on-camera-kink? Aka, Q and a mildly hurt Bond in a situation they might not get out of alive (but ultimately will) and an Avenger or more catching the desperate sex on a monitor? I'd be partial to first time, wall-sex, and bottom!Bond, but it's not necessary if you see fit to change the prompt up a bit.”  
> Just one thing, really: bottom!anyone in a situation where I can’t magically procure lube? Ouch, no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the first prompts I got, actually, and I’m only now sure how to do it! Gut Ding will Weile haben. Also, there haven’t been many squirrels around lately, here’s to rectifying that. (‘Squirrels’ is public-conversation code for porn. Jsyk.)

A single light bulb flickered to life above them.

“How long do we have?”

“If we breathe carefully? About half an hour.”

“And how exactly does one,” Bond drew himself up and grimaced at the pain that shot through his right leg, “breathe carefully?”

“By not asking stupid questions,” Q shot back, already busy examining the walls and the deadlock seals around the door through which they’d just been thrown.

“Mmh, testy,” Bond’s tone was acid. With half an hour’s worth of oxygen left, he didn’t have the time for teasing.

“Well, you had to go and get us caught.”

Seething, Bond stepped up next to Q, close enough to hinder his movements while he probed the seals with his fingers.

“I saved your neck!”

Q turned around to face him, an incredulous look on his face. “ _My_ neck? My neck didn’t need saving! That was all you, with your hero complex. I told you that the cabin I was in wouldn’t open without anyone else in the other, and that I’d have to take a moment and trick the sensors! But, no, you had to get impatient and shoot the lock!” Q threw his arms in the air as he yelled at the agent.

“It was about to flood with radiation!” James bit out, moving even closer.

“I was doing fine!”

“You had 8 seconds!”

“You panicked!” Q stabbed his right index finger into Bond’s chest; and both pulled back with a jolt as they realised they’d inadvertently gotten all up in each other’s space as they argued. Q sighed inwardly. They always did that, and it never did them any good. “So, what’s it gonna be? A few rounds of 20 Questions?” he asked bitterly.

Bond took a few steps back and turned. “Can you get us out?” he asked over his shoulder.

Q turned back towards the door and started to raise his hand again, but then let it fall. It was no use. “No.”

“C’mon, I’ve seen you do more impossible things than that.”

“It’s nice of you to finally acknowledge my abilities, 007,” Q responded wearily, “but you’ve seen me do things with a keyboard and electric circuits, not with my bare hands. I’m a genius, not a magician. I’m sorry,” he added after a pause.

“What for?”

“That you have to die in a deadlocked vault, the worst of your injuries a cut on your calf, instead of out in the field, with at least three bullet holes and in a blaze of glory.”

“There’s no glory out there.”

“I’m sorry that you have to die next to me, then.”

“That’s not so bad. Could have been Tanner.”

There were still standing with their backs turned on each other, James with his hands in his pockets, Q holding his glasses in one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he snapped and didn’t bother putting his glasses back on, folding them and putting them into his pocket instead.

“Q, it doesn’t bloody matter where or how I die.”

“It does to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You deserve better than this.”

“So do you.”

“Could have been 005,” Q shrugged, and Bond huffed a humourless laugh. “What has that guy ever done to you, anyway? I know 00s aren’t exactly best mates, but…”

Now it was Bond’s turn to shrug. “You tell me, you picked him out of the line-up. All I know is he’s hitting on you half the time he’s down in the lab.”

“ _You_ hit on me half the time you’re anywhere within earshot.” Q swivelled around to look at Bond, so the agent turned, too.

“Yeah, but you like it when I do.”

“Don’t give me that smug smile, you know it doesn’t work on me.”  
“Doesn’t it? You flirt back, you know. Rather shamelessly.” James stepped closer again.

“Really? That’s your line?”

“We have twenty-five minutes. Let’s make them count.”

“And I thought the end of the world couldn’t get any worse… Bond, I won’t be your pity shag!”

“Who said anything about pity?” James was crowding Q against the wall now, though his hands were still in his pockets. “There’s a reason why I hit on you.”

“And here I am, thinking that introducing yourself to anything that breathes is just your default setting,” Q replied, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“And if I asked you to please just screw me against the wall because I’ve wanted you to do that since we met?” Bond’s intense blue eyes were pinning Q to the spot, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. James noticed and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know, I shouldn’t have waited until now to tell you that.”

“The one time you actually follow protocol,” Q ground out.

“Just barely,” James’ eyes flickered towards Q’s mouth. “I came so close to asking you last week.”

“Last week?”

“You told the Prime Minister to stuff it.”

“He was questioning your necessity.”

“Am I, though? Necessary?”

“Twenty-four minutes,” Q cut him off, surged forward, and kissed him.

*

“Woah! Finally!” Tony exclaimed, while Bruce slapped his hand over his mouth to stifle his own reaction. Steve’s eyebrows had nearly reached his hairline.

“They’ve been wanting to do that for a while, haven’t they?” was all he said, and Tony and Bruce nodded dumbly.

As they watched on the monitor, Q and James were kissing frantically, hands already busy with zips and buttons and shoe laces.

“So many buttons and only two hands. I feel your pain, boys,” Tony sighed, and Bruce nudged him to be quiet. They continued watching for a minute, the two men on the screen now at least mostly naked, until Steve cleared his throat.

“You know why they’re doing this, right?”

Bruce snapped himself back to reality. “They think they’re gonna die.”

“Exactly. And they are, unless we get to work. Stark, c’mon!”

Tony grumbled, but called up the vault’s schematics on the other monitor. “Should we, uh, cut the feed on that?” he asked nonchalantly.

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to keep an eye on them. Half an eye! Go on, work your magic! I’ll make sure no-one else is still here.” With that, Cap was out the door.

Tony watched as Q grabbed Bond’s waist and turned them around so that the agent was pressed up against the wall. “You go, Quartermaster,” was all he said before he and Bruce concentrated on getting them the hell out of there.

*

When they finally had all their clothes off, Q turned them, James’ back thumping against the wall. They were still kissing, and James was faintly surprised that the way Q licked into his mouth was so filthy he could have got off on that alone. Sure, he’d known the man had talents, but now he was really berating himself for not doing this sooner.

Q’s hands wandered down towards his thighs, and James put his hands on his shoulders and levered himself up, wrapping his legs around Q’s hips. Their erections ground against each other, and Q broke the kiss, panting, leaning forward to keep them upright.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Quite,” James replied, his voice positively wrecked. He squeezed thighs tighter against Q’s frame.

Q cursed when he felt something run down the length of his buttocks and his right leg—that was James’ blood on his skin, and his cock twitched. He sank his teeth into the agent’s collarbone, intent on marking him at least once before they went to hell, as they began moving their hips. James squeezed a hand between them, slick with his own spit, and wrapped it around both of them. As his tug became Q’s push, they settled into what was not quite a rhythm, their first and their last; and James pushed his other hand into Q’s neck, pulling at his hair, making him look at him.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

“Good.”

James twisted his wrist and Q moaned against him, his hips shuddering and jerking.

When they came mere minutes later, they held their position for seconds that would never be endless, breathing against each other’s mouths. James nipped at Q’s bottom lip with his teeth, just because he could. Q lowered James’ legs, leaning against him when he was back on his own feet, James’ arm still around Q’s shoulders.

“How long?”

“Three minutes left. And if you dare say, ‘I usually last much longer,’ I’m gonna kill you myself before those three minutes are over.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James murmured against Q’s temple. He was going to say something else, when suddenly the door thumped open with a quiet hiss.

“What the hell?” Q whispered.

“Maybe they’re coming back to have a bit more fun with us.”

“How fast can you get dressed?”

“Modesty sort of isn’t my priority right now, Q.”

“It will be when they’re using your balls against you. Again.”

They were interrupted by the door being pulled open abruptly. James’ grip on Q’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, Q shot him a dirty look.

Both had trouble keeping their jaws above ground level when they saw Captain America step through the door, casting a quick look at them before politely averting his eyes.

“You can, um… get dressed and ready. We picked up radiation spikes in this area and decided to come have a look. When the reports came up flagged by MI6, Coulson called M in case we were walking in on something.” Steve realised too late the double meaning those words had taken on and had to suppress a grin. “M was getting worried, so we thought we’d stop by right away. Tony and Bruce got the door to open, I made sure no-one else was left in the building.”

Q and James were already scrambling into their discarded clothes.

“How did you know where we were? There are no cameras anywhere, I checked.”

“Did you know that this room existed before you got here?”

James and Q exchanged a look. “No.”

“Well…” Steve trailed off, and James snorted a laugh while Q put a hand over his eyes.

*

Bond took Q home that night.

“That was much more interesting than 20 Questions, don’t you think?” he asked as he closed the door behind them.

“And what does that mean?”

James went on as if he hadn’t heard him as he followed him into the living room. “Rather like 20 Questions, however, one doesn’t have to stop after the first round.”

“ _James_.”

“What?”

“That’s your line?”

“You like my lines.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“Come here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The cabin situation is oddly reminiscent of _Doctor Who: The End of Time_ … Cookies for all other references caught. (I’d nearly used Jack’s ‘came and went’ line. Nearly.)


	28. #28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [aryaspecter](http://aryaspecter.tumblr.com), [mrsimoshen](http://mrsimoshen.tumblr.com), and an anon on tumblr: “OKAY SO PROMPT BECAUSE Q knows just where to touch Bond, how to touch him, and what makes him fall apart. Basically, Ben's hands make me want to cry; so anything with Q's hands on Bond doing naughty things. They're just so long and elegant and pretty. :D” | “00q prompt! Bond's hands are always super warm. Q's hands are always freezing. They meet in the middle.” | “If so, I just got hit over the head by an idea. Hand!kink - once Bond has seen Q's hands work their magic on the keys of computers, he can't seem to stop thinking about them in other situations...”  
> It’s time for another double feature!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands, guys. _Hands_. As I observed to Ch.: ‘Anything that gives me an excuse to google Ben Wishaw’s hands.’ Her reaction: ‘Oh you. All for research.’ See, Ch. understands me. IT’S FOR SCIENCE. SEXY SCIENCE.

**One:**

James hated it when he fell asleep with his earpiece still in. It meant that he invariably woke up to the sound of incessant typing intruding on his senses, keys clicking in such rapid succession that he couldn’t have distinguished a pattern even if he’d known what Q was actually doing.

It wasn’t the clicking of the keys that drove him up the wall, though.

It was what made them click.

Q’s fingers, slender and nimble, yet strong, and always cold—he’d shaken his hand often enough to know, even though he’d never really needed to again after the first time in the gallery. If he closed his eyes, he could see them dancing. He’d seen them topple governments at the stroke of a key, had seen them dis- and reassemble a gun just as quickly as Bond himself could in his sleep, had seen them caress the porcelain of his stupid Scrabble mug after getting a fresh brew of tea from his office. He’d seen them attack the keys angrily, had seen them coax the first commands out of the new keyboard he’d gotten a month ago, had seen them fly across buttons and consoles in utter glee. He’d seen them wave through the air when he was making a point, had seen them hesitate just once, and in that moment he’d wanted to give them something to do just to not see them falter.

It had taken him a while to realise that what he wanted those fingers to do most, that the instrument he wanted those digits to play like he’d seen them do so often, was his own body.

He knew their shape, knew the slope of every knuckle, knew that he wanted the length of them all over his skin and then inside him, probing him, and wondered how long it would take Q to drive him over the edge with just a press and a slide and a crook of those fingers alone.

“Are you alright, 007? Your breathing is speeding up.”

“How do you know that’s because I’m awake?” James grumpily asked in reply.

“I heard your breathing pattern change earlier, indicating you were conscious. Nightmares sound different… or at least yours do.”

Another reason why Bond regretted forgetting the earpiece sometimes. But then he wasn’t sure whether those weren’t the nights he didn’t so much forget as ignore; as it were usually the nights Q didn’t go home. When he woke up, drenched in sweat and Q bellowing his number in his ear to get him to snap awake, he concentrated on the sound the genius’ fingers made on the keys, anchoring himself to something he knew, though couldn’t touch. Sometimes, Q wasn’t typing, and Bond found himself ordering him to when he wasn’t. Q complied without questioning.

Bond turned onto his back, taking a deep breath to settle down. He was half-hard underneath the covers—might as well do something about it. He was tempted to tell Q to get back to typing and jerk himself off to the tune of it, but he knew Q was too observant, no matter how good Bond was at keeping quiet if he had to. He could mute the comms on his end, but he didn’t trust Q not to override the setting remotely—not out of an inherent lack of respect for Bond’s privacy, but because curiosity always killed the cat.

“And how do you know that’s the only kind of dream I could be having?” he couldn’t resist teasing Q at least that much.

“Why, Mr Bond, do tell,” Q pretended to be impressed, fingers busy in the background, and James grinned at the ceiling.

“Maybe later.” With that, he took out the earpiece and got out of bed, heading towards the shower.

 

**Two:**

Bond’s hands were always warm, no matter where he was. His hands never shook cocking his gun in the cold of Siberia; they felt right at home in the sweltering air of Rio. When he touched Q, it was like being enveloped in heat, trails of it blazing across Q’s skin when James dragged his fingers from his chest down to his thighs.

When they shook hands at work or when their fingers intertwined lazily as they rocked against each other at night, warmth met cold, setting nerve endings ablaze with contrary sensations, as contrary as their owners. They met in the middle.

Q ran his fingertips over James’ stomach, a touch that was barely there but that he knew would cause the muscles to contract underneath the skin, proving that ice could burn, that would make James arch up into him, eyes fluttering shut as his breath hitched for the first time that night. Q tilted his head as he lay on his side next to the agent, taking in every gasp, every muttered curse. He knew the path his fingers would take next, what would make James tremble, what would make him give that broken sound at the back of his throat that made Q want to dig in his fingers until there were only _his_ marks on James’ skin, not the mission’s. He knew exactly what he had to do to make James lose control, and yet he still catalogued each and every one of his reactions as the agent came apart under his command.

The first time they’d done this, James had been just too bloody careful with him, so Q had set out to show him how wrong he was; had scraped his fingernails and teeth over bruises and scars that had not quite healed. Although that time James hadn’t been able to give himself over completely (he’d flipped them over and proceeded to give Q the blowjob of his life, messy and torturously slow), but Q had seen the way he’d reacted to his touch, had seen he wanted nothing more than to be taken apart by the one person who knew how.

“Pace yourself,” Q muttered, knowing James would obey until he couldn’t take it anymore. His fingers were dragging along the insides of James’ thighs now, watching as James’ chest rose faster in anticipation. Reaching for the lube with his other hand, Q hitched up James’ leg.

James’ body couldn’t decide whether to flush with heat or to shudder with the chill of Q’s fingers, so it did both. When he felt a slick finger pushing past the tight muscle just as a warm, wet mouth latched onto one of his nipples, he let out a keening moan and his own hands gripped the sheets. Q knew what he wanted.

Q took his time; working first one finger into him, then two, then three, until James was pushing back against his hands with abandon, head thrown back into the pillows. Q crooked his fingers, pushing against James’ prostate, and twisted them, stimulating the sensitive gland relentlessly, James gasping above him.

“Please.”

“What was that?” Q stopped the movement of his fingers as he looked up at James, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

James groaned in frustration, rolling his hips, searching for friction.

“Please, let me come.”


	29. #29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is fire burning bright, heavy ambers glowing deep. Q is young skin, fast and light. James looks at Q, and sees corners that he’s terrified to cut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet inspired by and set to the tune of Peggy Sue’s [‘Watchman.’](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/35535160442/peggy-sue-watchman-daytrotter-session)

James is fire burning bright, heavy ambers glowing deep. Q is young skin, fast and light. James looks at Q, and sees corners that he’s terrified to cut.

_Friend, come to bed_  
 _I waited ‘til the pretty ones_  
 _Had all laid down their heads_  
 _And I said, ‘Oh, come to bed’_  
 _‘Cause you know that I'm yours_  
 _When we're the only bodies left_

Maybe Bond seduces Q, maybe it's the other way around. Bonds waits until the lab is empty before he pounces; but perhaps he's just falling right into the trap laid out for him. He can't bring himself to wonder. Q's mouth opens underneath his tongue and something within James unwinds or coils tighter; the two feel so similar he's forgotten how to tell.

_My friend, if you want to stay_  
 _We can wait for all the other possibilities to fade_  
 _And by then, it will be late_  
 _And I won't say a word and we can go our separate ways_

When he lies awake at night, he watches sleep take Q away from him. When he sleeps, he dreams of his own haggard reflection in retro glasses.

The other side of the bed is always empty when he wakes.

It's nothing, he knows that now. The fire in his chest begins to roar, and he silences it with a glance in Q's direction. Or does looking at him make it worse?

_My friend, don't give it straight_  
 _I'd love to see the effort of you lying to my face_  
 _So lie, lie with me_  
 _‘Cause you know I'd like you best_  
 _If you were lying through your teeth_

He hears Q tell him to come back safe; and he wants to say, 'I don't want safe, not from you. Tell me to come home.'

But he doesn't, and instead he nods and leaves.

_Kid, don't kid yourself_  
 _You're always watching someone who is watching someone else_  
 _Where's the someone always watching you_  
 _You looked away from him just so that you could scan the room_

He doesn't know Q's eyes follow him down the corridor until he vanishes.

He knows they follow him around the world, but that's just cameras and lenses; cold and unblinking, nothing like the orbs half-hidden behind lids he kisses one night. Q asks him not to do that again.

_And watch, watch your eyes_  
 _I tried, but I get dizzy trying to follow them side to side_  
 _And watch, watch your mouth_  
 _I tried my very best, but I can't follow what comes out_

There's a voice in his ear now, too, as he's standing in a giant ballroom, watching. He knows where Q's hidden cameras are, and he feels his eyes flicker towards them even though they shouldn't. He mutters obscenities under his breath, Q tells him to slow down and have a drink. The words 'high' and 'functioning' collide just behind his left temporal lobe and he declines. Q's silence questions and he doesn't answer, 'It's your fault.'

_I only came here to see you see me  
I only came here to watch you watch me leave_

He shoots three men and nearly dies; and when he wakes up in medical, there are glasses on the bedstand. The chair next to him is empty, and the pain pulls him back under before he can feel the ambers turning cold.

He flickers in and out, and once there's a hand in his. He squeezes, barely.

_I did my best to let it rest_  
 _No, I didn't say a word, but still I could have said much less_  
 _I held my tongue, you held the rest_  
 _You held it far too long_  
 _And now I'm in over my head_  
 _So friend, I'll give it straight_  
 _I always need a hand to hold when it is growing late_

'James?'

He turns. The scar still twinges when he does that.

'Never do that again. I don't care if I'm just another notch in your bedpost, but never do that to me again.'

There are flames licking at his heart, and that night, they burn together.

_So I will lie, lie for you_  
 _‘Cause you know that I am yours_  
 _When there is nothing else to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “James falls for Q; not just sex, he actually wants a relationship with him and is genuinely hurt when it seems like it’s one-sided. But Q does actually have feelings for James, it’s just that he KNOWS about 007’s looong history of ‘love’m and leave’m’ and thinks he would just be another one of those.”


	30. #30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “May I request a little Hurt/Comfort for your series of requests? Q comparing himself to Bond and wondering why James chose him, because the geniuses are always riddled with insecurity (I think the main ones would be the age difference and body type for Q). James would work it out, obviously; one does not become a spy for nothing.”  
> Nawww, baby!

Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Q was just done buttoning his shirt when he felt the heat of another body close against his back. He looked up and found James behind him, a little to the side, adjusting the collar of his own shirt. His thigh was touching Q’s—his strong, muscular thigh that could probably give an elephant a concussion.

Q had to fight not to let out a sigh. Almost every time he looked at James, he felt like the teensy spider next to the mighty lion, and he wondered.

‘Why do you stay?’ he’d whispered at James’ sleeping form beside him one night.  
There’d been no answer. He wasn’t sure whether he’d have wanted to hear it if there had.

He knew it didn’t make _sense_ —he was hardly even an inch shorter, skinny, but not frail; he was a fucking genius, he was James’ Quartermaster, which required him to be just as dangerous as the agent himself, if not more. Intellectually, he knew all that.

But then he saw James, naked or otherwise, striding through his flat at three in the morning, muscles rippling through a body that seemed moulded by divine craft; he felt the sheer strength of the man, coiled tightly within, when James wrapped himself around him.

He was a kid in a job that made him so much older than he could take, sometimes. He knew he could fly, but some days his wings were stuck together.

Q thought that James must know that.

He could probably smell it on him when he walked into the lab, smirking, hands in his pockets; when he stood behind Q just as he did now, watching him work.

‘Why are you wasting your time with me?’ he’d whispered into the mountainous shadows cast by James’ shoulders.

James Bond, who treated everyone who wasn’t James Bond with easy disdain, who always insisted that he didn’t need anyone, that he didn’t _want_ anyone. He’d seen the world crumble and had put it back together with his own bare hands.

What did Q have to offer that James couldn’t find in any bed in the world?

*

Their eyes met in the mirror, and James smiled at Q while fixing his tie. Q smiled back, but he seemed already lost in thought, and James frowned as he watched Q’s face fall a bit. It had been doing that a lot lately, at odd moments.

“Oh, boy wonder,” he said quietly as he leaned over and kissed that particular spot behind Q’s ear. James’ frown deepened when he felt Q tense before allowing himself to react to the sensation. “Q?” he queried, pressing another kiss to Q’s neck, just above his collar.

“We’ll be late for the briefing,” Q muttered and turned to leave the bathroom; calling, “Do you want coffee?” over his shoulder as he went.

James, turned, crossing his arms, and leaned against the sink. “Knowing Tanner, I’ll need it,” he called back. He heard the pot being wrestled from the machine in reply. Flipping through his mental diorama of Q’s face whenever it didn’t do what he expected it to, James rapidly found himself coming to a conclusion that he didn’t like at all.

“James Bond, you’re a colossal berk,” he chided himself under his breath, and followed Q to the kitchen, grabbing his suit jacket and Q’s cardigan on the way.

That he’d figured out the problem didn’t mean that he knew how to fix it—but he’d damn well try.

*

Three weeks later, he was dripping blood onto the floor of Q’s lab.

“007, really?” he heard an irritated voice coming up behind him. The lab was empty except for the two of them, so James wasn’t surprised when he briefly felt a slender hand at the nape of his neck.

“I wanted to see you,” was all he offered as Q stepped in front of him.

“You couldn’t have gotten yourself stitched up first?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s bad for my _floor_.”

“MI6 can afford cleaning crews.”

“James, what do you want that couldn’t wait until after medical arranged the usual kidnapping?”

“What makes you think I want something?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“You’re planning something. Will you tell me what it is?”

“Kiss me first.”

Q rolled his eyes, but stepped closer and brushed his lips against James’, careful not to reopen the cut. Bond waited until Q’s arms were enveloping his neck, and then suddenly reached down, gripping Q’s thighs and picking him up, walking to his desk and unceremoniously depositing him on it, coming to stand between his legs. Q pulled back to stare at him, eyebrow drawn, blinking when James took off his glasses.

“Was that the plan?”

“Maybe,” James murmured, chasing his mouth, drawing him into a less gentle kiss. When he broke away this time, Q looked mildly irritated and curious. _Good_. “You know, that you’re so skinny made this at least three times easier just now,” he said, watching Q’s face carefully. _Aha_. “But that’s not why I did it. That’s not why I’m here.”

Q’s eyes widened as he watched. _Penny in the air_ …

James pushed closer. “I need you, all of you.”

“I’m a spider next to a lion.”

“The spider is an artist who can weave a web that could trap a lion.”

“The lion could crush even such an artist.”

“And you could poison me and suck me dry.”

“Are we equals?”

“In everything that matters.”

_The penny drops._


	31. #31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “In the film, obviously, the part where James implies he's had sex with a man before: could we pretend it's Q, and Q can hear in on the earpiece this conversation between Bond and Silva?”   
> Squeak.  
> [José González: _[Lovestain](http://www.last.fm/music/Jos%C3%A9+Gonz%C3%A1lez/_/Lovestain?setlang=en)_ , click the link to listen to the full track on last.fm]

What Silva doesn't know is that Q is listening. Bond may have lost the earpiece, but there's still a bug in one of his shirt buttons--the button that, if the rustling is anything to go by, Silva is now undoing. This isn’t about M anymore.

“Oh, you’re trying to remember your training now.”

_You left a lovestain on my heart_

Q's breathing matches Bond's as it accelerates almost unnoticeably—almost. Q knows that if he can hear it, Silva can see it. More rustling, and when Q cranks up the volume, he thinks he can hear the slide of skin against skin, past the collar of James' shirt. He wants to rip those hands away and break every single knuckle.

_And you left a bloodstain on the ground_

“What’s the regulation to cover this?”

Q doesn't know what Silva is doing to James after that, but he doesn't have to, he can imagine when the chair the agent is tied to scrapes against the floor just a little, indicating a movement of the lower back or legs. He tries not to think about those thighs straddling him, James towering over him as he pulls off his shirt, before bending to bite Q’s chest.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

_But blood comes off easily  
But blood comes off easily_

He is almost startled when James speaks, his voice low and in control, even smug. Q knows he's smirking, just a little.

“What makes you think this is my first time?”

 “Oh, Mr Bond!”

Q smirks, too, knowing what the lips that quirk so deliciously feel like, smiling against his skin.

_You left my heart stained_


	32. #32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Hana and Atlas (and everyone in the 00Q chat this afternoon). Wrote it while peacefully sitting in Utopian Fiction class. I've got that much of a pokerface.  
> It is, in two words: butt worship. Brace yourselves.

“On your front, James,” Q whispered into Bond’s ear, and his gut tightened. He’d been waiting, silently asking for this the entire night, who was he even kidding.

He turned over and Q moulded himself to his back, covering James’ broad frame with his own, slender build. James could feel Q’s erection against his thigh and raised himself to grind against it—which earned him a swift smack on his left cheek.

“Keep still,” Q ordered slowly, his breath ghosting across James’ neck. James pushed his hips into the bed, seeking friction, and Q smirked, curling his hand around the jut of his hipbone, digging his fingers into the sensitive skin. “Oh, no, you don’t.”

Keeping his hand on James’ hip, Q bent his head and dragged his lips from James’ neck to his shoulder, alternating between biting and licking at the flushed skin, sinking his teeth into the dip of James’ shoulder blade. James arched into him and Q bit down hard, knowing full well that it was punishment and incentive all in one.

“Not helping,” James promptly groaned into his pillow; and Q licked a long stripe from his shoulder up to his ear, nibbling on the lobe.

“It’s not supposed to,” he drawled, before moving down, sliding along James’ body, dropping kisses to the skin of his back on the way. His left hand still clutching James’ hip, his right slid between James’ legs, caressing the inside of his thigh. James parted his legs further instinctively and Q hummed appreciatively. He nosed at the skin where arse became thigh, slowly, lazily.

He worked his way towards the cleft of James’ buttocks by way of soft, lingering kisses, James squirming underneath him—he let him, just this once. Moving to kneel between James’ legs, he removed his hands, and then stroked his palms from James’ shoulders, down his back, until they were resting on the firm globes, squeezing lightly, pressing James down into the mattress when he tried to rock into the pressure.

Parting the cheeks, he could see the puckered entrance, and inhaled sharply with want. Leaning down again, Q continued kissing his way closer, scraping his teeth over the skin behind James’ balls.

“Fuck,” the agent breathed above him.

“Oh, yes,” Q replied, his own voice wrecked. “I’m going to take you apart.”

Giving James no further warning, he swiftly dragged his tongue up towards the tight ring of muscle, teasing the entrance with the tip. Bond bucked up against him, giving a strangled moan.

“You were saying?” Q murmured against his skin.

“Please.”

“What do you want me to do, James? You have to tell me.”

“Please… fuck me with your tongue.”

“Good boy,” Q drawled and stroked his hand up and down James’ thigh, teasing him further, but soon giving in to his own need. He laved his tongue over James’ entrance, sucking and nipping softly with his teeth, before pushing the tip of his tongue past the muscle, drawing it out and pushing back in. James was panting, muttering a string of obscenities under his breath, pushing back against Q. When he bucked his hips, Q drew his mouth away with a faint pop, using his hands to hold James down.

“No, no, no,” he chided gently, while at the same time moving one of his hands to trail the tip of a finger over the slick skin, enjoying how James’ breathing hitched even as he tried to groan in frustration. “Promise to keep still.”

“Ugh,” was all he heard.

“Don’t make me order you, 007.”

“Oh, for the love of—I promise,” James’ voice broke on the last syllable; and Q rewarded him by immediately ducking his head down again, licking across the hole with just enough pressure to make the muscle contract reflexively, seeking for pressure from within. He obliged and began thrusting his tongue into James in earnest, quickening his pace the longer James kept still. The muscles in James’ back were working desperately, and Q wasn’t sure he was aware of the sounds he was making.

His entrance was slick now, Q’s tongue sliding in and out, curling against the muscle from the inside, making James curse incoherently. Sweat was beading on his skin, and Q had to close his eyes before he lost it right there. His own erection was straining, curving towards his stomach; and it only got worse when he gently rolled James’ balls between his fingers. James gave a muffled shout, his body not knowing whether to move into the touch or get away from it, his nerve endings going into overload slowly but surely.

He changed the angle of his thrusts, making James breathe out in keening moan that may also have been a whimper. Q pulled away again, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth before he spoke.

“James?”

“Yes?” It was barely even a syllable.

“I’m going to count to three and then I want you to come.” He relaxed his hold on James’ thigh, indicating that he was free to move again, and James immediately rocked his hips against the bed, trying to loosen the tension in his back, his breath coming in uneven pants. Q lowered his mouth. “One.” His tongue traced the rim of James’ hole, just once. “Two.” He pushed all the way in again, sucking on the skin as he pulled away. “Three.” Q thrust back in as James grunted and his hips jerked upwards, the friction of his cock against the sheets enough to trigger his climax.

Q let him ride it out, sitting up when James collapsed against the mattress, his entire body slack, his breathing a ragged mess. He covered James’ body with his again, pressing his chest to the glistening back, and guided his erection between James’ slick thighs. James closed his legs, moaning, pushing back against him; and Q slowly thrust, his movements almost unsteady with suppressed want. James reached back, curling his hand over Q’s hip, guiding him, until Q hoarsely shouted James’ name and practically crashed on top of him.

James’ hand remained on his hip, brushing his thumb against the skin. Neither of them said anything, merely tried to match each other’s breathing until they feel asleep.


	33. #33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [Hana](http://memory-and-fantasy.tumblr.com) on tumblr and NaughtyKittyKat on AO3: “also you need to write something where James puts on a bit of weight between missions when he's recovering and Q is just amused at first that bond is so grumpy about it, but soothes him” | “Is there a possibility for a reverse situation in the near future? A story in which James is fretting over why such a young and beautiful genius stays with an old and scarred man like him?”

"There's no shame in saying you've lost a stone."

Oh, the irony.

Looking down at himself in the shower, Bond sighed. If Mallory only knew that losing a stone wasn't really his problem to begin with.

He turned off the tap and stepped out, quickly towelling himself off. Q was already in bed, probably half-asleep after spending four days and last night saving Miller's sorry arse. James hadn't been out on a mission in three weeks--partly due to recovering from cracking his ribs, partly because the terrorists seemed to have hit a bit of a lull--and he'd just come home from his morning run when Q returned. Bond couldn't say that he was complaining about the break, if he were entirely honest, and that in turn just pissed him off.

He padded into the bedroom, finding Q in his underwear, not even bothering with pyjamas, his face squished into a pillow, limbs everywhere.

"Full faceplant, Q?" he asked, knowing from the speed of Q's breathing that he was still awake enough to answer.

"It had to be done," came the muffled reply; and James chuckled. He pulled on a pair of old sweatpants and a t-shirt before joining Q, pulling and prodding until he could drag the covers over them both.

When he turned and turned the radio on the nightstand off, Q attached himself to his back, winding his arms around him, linking his hands over his stomach. Bond's mood crashed somewhere between grumpy and sorry for himself, and though he tried not to show it when he settled into the covers and slid his arms over Q's, he knew the man could feel the slight tension in his back.

Q exhaled in a soft sigh against his neck and squished closer, entangling their legs and brushing his right thumb over the cotton covering James' skin.

"You know I don't mind, right?"          

James grunted.

"You put on a little weight between missions, what's the harm? Eating well won't kill you."

"I never used to."

Q brushed his nose along James' shoulder. "It's hardly noticeable."

"You noticed."

"I notice everything, James; I notice when you lose an eye lash."

"It's a pudge."

"It's not a pudge."

James grunted again.

"James, is this about body image, getting old, or both?"

The agent didn't reply.

"You were resting, you needed the downtime."

"You don't put on weight even when we spend the week in bed and all I see you eat is take-out Chinese and pancakes." There was an edge to James' voice that he would have liked to conceal, but Q was too smart not to figure it out anyway.

"That's because I'm--oh."

Of course he'd figure it out. Figure out how James sometimes felt there was a clock ticking, not just on his career, but on his already questionable appeal to Q. The thought that old age would finish him off before a bullet could was bad enough, but watching Q saunter around, with his narrow hips and a fresh face after four hours of sleep, proving his genius practically every day, Bond did ask himself how much longer the experiment would last. He considered murder his employment and was getting increasingly worse at compartmentalising--in other words, he was a broken old man.

"James, don't do that to yourself." Again, James didn't answer. Q sighed. "Remember the lion and the spider?"

He nodded.

"You told me we were equals in everything that matters. That's still true."

"You're a bloody genius."

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that we're both brilliant at what we do. The rest is just numbers."

"Like the numbers on a scale."

"I actually find you insanely hot right now."

"What?"

Q's hands shifted, his right slid underneath James' t-shirt and grabbed his hip. "More for me to sink my teeth into." Q stretched up a little and rested his chin on James' shoulder. "I know you think you're old and broken. But when you do your next job, remember who gave you the gun."

James turned over in Q's arms and kissed him.


	34. #34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “Q and Bond get a cat. Or something. With Cats. Because.”  
> At first, I was like, how the fuck would these two ever keep a pet alive? But then the other part of my brain cut in all, 'but... but... cats!' and the rest is, well, fluff. Thanks to [backwardspages](http://backwardspages.tumblr.com) for the name! x

As Bond walked into the lab, he was immediately aware of the increasing number of people staring at him as he passed, though he kept his eyes trained ahead, striding towards the one person too busy to acknowledge him. It wasn't the cuts and bruises all over Bond's face, or the split lip, or the blood and the dirt on his suit that caused everyone to stop what they were doing and wonder if their very own 007 had finally gone off the deep end.

It was a furry little head peeking out of his jacket pocket, staring at its environs with wide eyes.

James walked up behind Q and waited. He knew that suddenly announcing oneself sometimes ended in paperclips or pocketknives being lobbed over Q's shoulder at the intruder--depending on who it was. Tanner got the paperclips, Eve and Bond the knives. (Mallory--M--got nothing, and seemed somewhat disappointed sometimes.) So he watched Q work on what looked like a variant of the safe guard system, eventually looking down at his passenger to find her doing the same, ears front. At length, Q completed the sequence.

"007," he said, picking up his mug of tea before he turned to face him, "what a pleasant surprise." His lips quirked upwards almost imperceptibly, Q let his eyes travel over James, cataloguing the damage. "Well, could be worse." His eyes lingered on the cat for less than a second. "It also seems you have picked up a stowaway." Q's expression didn't give anything away, but Bond saw the curiosity in the way Q held his mug half an inch higher in front of his chest.

"I found her outside the compound in Prague."

"So you stuck her into your pocket?"

"The compound was about to blow up, I crouched behind a wall, and then this one just turned up. Her family probably didn't make it."

"So you stuck her into your pocket."

Bond nodded. Q sighed.

"Of course you did."

The kitten began to struggle a little, so James carefully scooped her up and set her on a desk empty of equipment or keyboards--when your cat butt-dialled one of your Skype friends, it didn't do much harm. In the HQ of MI6, not so cute. They watched her chase her own tail for a bit before Q cleared his throat.

"And what now?"

"I can't take her home with me, can I?"

"Oh, but I can? Bond, call animal services."

James frowned. "Can't she stay here?"

"What, as an office cat?"

"There's always someone around in this place. And it would drive M crazy."

"That's not a valid argument."

James looked back at the kitten, who'd just fallen flat on her face trying to get at her tail. "I daresay she disagrees."

"Have you had her checked out?"

"Well, our medics aren't vets, but Morris said she seemed fine; probably barely ten weeks old."

"No hidden cameras anywhere?"

Bond scowled.

"If anyone on the other side figures out that you have a soft spot for furballs, we're going to have android kittens with laser eyes dumped on you next time."

Bond scowled harder.

"What about her food?"

"Your budget is big enough, and she can get lunch scraps anywhere, she's wiley enough."

"What about her litter?"

"Build a self-cleaning one."

By the minute tensing of Q's shoulders, he looked ready to murder James with his ID badge.

"Fine."

"Really?" James tried very hard not to sound hopeful.

"Really. Yes, the cat stays!" Q called, looking over James' shoulder at the rest of the geeks, who wisely pretended they hadn't been listening to their exchange the entire time. "Tonight someone should take her home, though, so she can get used to the company."

 

*

 

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Q said as James manhandled a bulk of Chinese take-out and other groceries through the door.

"You better start believing it, she's chewing on your finger," James pointed out as he grabbed a small plate and a tin of cat food and opened it--the kitten threw herself off of Q's lap and into the kitchen, eventually colliding with James' leg in her haste, before he could get another word in.

Q hid his smile behind another mug of tea while James stroked the cat's back with his index finger as she fed.

 

*

 

Everyone in the lab and those of MI6 upper levels who made frequent trips downstairs was head over heels with Matilda; and there was no mistaking that she enjoyed the attention. Her favourites, however, were obvious.

It was always either Bond or Q who took her home with them after a mission, not caring that M called it a 'custodial agreement of stunning imbecility.' Spending most of the time in the lab with Q and the geek squad, Matilda got understandably excited when James returned from a mission relatively unscathed and, on one memorable occasion, decided to climb onto his shoe, and from there up the entire length of his body; until she was finally sitting on his shoulder, panting, wondering whether she'd manage it past his neck, too. He warned her with a look, so she settled down, purring into his ear.

If pictures existed, no-one ever got to see them.


	35. #35

Q continued typing as Bond looked over his shoulder.

“Are you virtually digging a tunnel through the Rocky Mountains?”

“What of it? Hand me that tablet, 007.”

Without averting his eyes from the screen, James grabbed the device and handed it over. “Why?”

“I thought 00s were ‘too busy to bother with such trivia,’” Q replied absentmindedly, but vaguely teasing.

“I thought you never took anything I said after three beers personally,” James said in the same tone, stepping aside a little when Q moved to turn towards another desk, allowing him to cut past. Behind them, the basement was slowly filling with employees; and they both turned when they heard the glass doors open with a soft swish. A messenger from upstairs leaned against it, carrying a wad of files.

“Should I come back later?”

“No, no, just put the papers on that desk over there. Thank you.”

The messenger nodded and did as Q had asked, then left the room. Bond noted the curious glance the kid chanced at them as he left, but filed it away under Irrelevant.

 

*

 

Bond had to reign in his smile as he wandered into the lab, recognising by the tension in Q’s shoulders that today was not an easy day for the MI6 Quartermaster. James had predicted as much when they’d finished watching the last series of _The Wire_ the evening before, but being right never quite lost its appeal. Arriving at Q’s desk, he at least allowed himself a smirk.

“Having a good day, Q?” he inquired politely.

“As much as one can when everyone is too busy staring at one’s neck rather than working,” Q said, his tone perfectly level as ever.

“Well, visible proof that you’re actually not actually a twelve-year-old in disguise is hard to come by.”

“Why, thank you, 007, I feel much better now.”

“You’re welcome.”

Eve entered the room at that moment, winking at James and smiling at Q. Her eyes inevitably landed on the hickey adorning Q’s neck above his shirt collar, and it was only her excellent composure that prevented her from doing a double-take right out of Slapstick 101.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” James commented, entirely too amused to let it go even as Q narrowed his eyes at him.

Interestingly enough, so did Eve.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, “I just thought you’d be more smug about it; you usually are.”

Bond’s question as to what she meant was cut off by Tanner calling from upstairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a situation.”

That would have to wait, then.

 

*

 

Mallory called them into his office a month later, briefing them on a mission that would necessitate Q to accompany Bond to Moscow. Buzzing the intercom as 007 and Q left the room, M instructed Eve to “put them on a plane and find a hotel in range of the target.” They heard him hesitate and then add, “You take care of the details.”

Exchanging a look, they both shrugged minutely. Coming to stand in front of Moneypenny’s desk, they smiled at her.

“Well, then, gentlemen,” she said, tapping away on her laptop, “how many suites?”

Again, they shared a glance, Q raising an eyebrow this time.

“We can share,” Bond shrugged, “if the budget is suddenly tighter than I remember it being.”

“Two bedrooms or one?” Eve asked, now looking at them.

James drew breath to say something, but then turned towards Q, who did the same; the two effectively taking a time-out. Bond pointed at Moneypenny.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“A lot of things are suddenly making sense, actually.”

“They think we’re shagging, don’t they?”

“It’s the only theory that suits all the weird glances and comments we’ve been getting lately.”

“Huh. The more you know.”

They turned back towards Eve, who’d observed their little aside.

“Two bedrooms,” Q answered her question, still smiling. She looked back and forth between them for a moment.

“So you’re not..?”

They shook their heads.

“Oh, boy. We were so sure…”

“Well, we had M wondering, didn’t we?” James chuckled.

“You’re going to have a good long laugh about this as soon as you’re out of the building, aren’t you?”

James just grinned, but Q explained, “Well, for a bit, but… more at the idea of us together, rather than others getting the idea. Everyone’s got friends who might well be together, but aren’t.”

Eve laughed and nodded. “You certainly had me fooled—when you had that hickey, I thought James had finally snapped.”

Just then, the intercom buzzed again. “Haven’t you gotten rid of the two yet?”

“No, sir, we were just discussing the value of a good cover.”

“Well, cut it short, I need you to kick someone’s rear into gear at Downing Street for me.”

“Yes, sir.” Bond and Q were already on their way out, but she called them back. “Do you want me to, um, spread the word?”

Again, they shrugged. “Go ahead—people think what they want anyway.” Q turned to James. “And you chase anything that moves regardless, don’t you?”

“I suppose the customary response would now be, ‘Yes, dear.’”

“Oh, don’t you start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [calysto1395](http://calysto1395.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “Everybody thinks Q and Bond are shagging when they are instead just the best buddies ever.”
> 
> Obviously, this is the odd one out in this series, but I thought I’d have some fun with the idea. I know that this is sort of a delicate thing in terms of meta, because the ‘they’re just friends, why do you have to make everything gay!’ argument is so frequently used against shipping—but this is definitely shipper-friendly material. Close friends are often aware that people ship them, and that’s cool. That it’s not actually true doesn’t invalidate that, if their lives were a TV show, the fact that they’re as close as they are could plausibly be identified as subtext by the viewers. Hence, this is also the attitude that James and Q take in this as soon as they cotton on to it.  
> [Also, then I wondered what song to listen to while writing this, and my brain jumped to Jellyfish’s _He’s My Best Friend_. *facepalms at self* It’s not actually set to it, but it cheered me up immensely :D]


	36. #36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “How about Bond and Q go out together (for any kind of reason) and they accidentally run into Q's ex?”  
> This calls for a giant hashtag, blinking away in the corner: #AWKWARD

The third time that Q and James had to go shopping for food together, they were half expecting something weird to happen—after all, third time’s the charm, as they say. When their trek through the butcher’s shop and the grocery aisles remained uneventful, James didn’t know whether to be relieved or secretly disappointed.

Half an hour later, he realised that he should have known that it would be the tea shop, again, where absurdity would strike.

He was patiently waiting while Q was checking out the new arrivals of various mixtures that had come in, smiling occasionally when Q irascibly muttered to himself about too much bergamot or nonsensical blending of flavours. James couldn’t stand the stuff and preferred it when Q was so horribly out of it that he asked for coffee in the mornings to get his eyelids to budge, but picking and choosing a new blend was a ritual he liked being witness to, for whatever reason. He was vaguely aware of movement behind them, of other shoppers moving through, but he was relaxed enough for his attention to remain with Q.

Which was why, when a woman’s voice hesitantly called, “Chris?” from behind them, he didn’t even register it. None of his aliases were named Chris.

“Christopher?” The same woman’s voice, closer this time. James looked around, searching, until he saw a woman in her mid-twenties, about 5’9, with curly brown hair. She was wearing a black long coat and a thick scarf against the cold, but nothing suggested the outline of a weapon. Her eyes flickered to him for a second, but her body language told James that, really—she meant Q. He blinked. Oh.

James reached out to touch Q’s arm.                         

“Um…,” was all he said, but it was enough to get Q to look up. James nodded his head in the other direction and Q turned. The woman’s eyes widened, which James took to mean that Q was indeed the man she’d thought to be ‘Christopher.’

“Sally! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Sally smiled. “It’s alright, I know how you get over tea,” she teased, holding up her own packet; but then her eyes cut to James again and she tensed, unsure of how such a remark would be received. Q followed her gaze and swiftly caught himself, clearing his throat.

“James, this is Sally Marsden; Sally, this is James Bond.”

James smiled politely and reached out his hand, which she shook with a firm grip, despite her obvious lingering doubts whether this had been an entirely good idea.

“Nice to meet you, James,” she said, and he nodded.

“Likewise.”

Sally turned to Q again. “How have you been? You more or less dropped off the radar after you got that job offer; I guess it worked out alright?”

“Yes, yes, it did.”

Q shifted a little, James stayed completely still, adopting his civilian posture (less towering, more hovering), watching Sally, who was probably wondering whether she was tip-toeing around the elephant in the room, or whether she _was_ the elephant.

“Are you finishing your Master’s at Oxford this year?” Q eventually asked, and Sally perked up.

“Next year. I went to Italy for half a year to do some digging in the archives, so it’s taking a bit longer—but it was worth it.”

“Good. I’m glad the work is paying off.”

She nodded again, twirling a packet of tea in her left hand, the right adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. James counted the seconds in his head.

“What do you do for a living, then, James?”

‘I kill and maim and murder, and when I have a day off, I pick up computer whizzes half my age,’ didn’t seem like the polite thing to say.

“Universal Exports,” he supplied instead. “Lots of travelling, less desk work,” he added with a glance at Q, who nodded imperceptibly. Sally smiled. Silence lurked behind the rack of Darjeeling.

“Well, I guess we should be going—James just came back from a trip and we haven’t even had dinner yet,” Q added apologetically.

“Oh, no, of course, don’t—don’t let me keep you,” Sally waved her hand holding the tea in the general direction of the cashier. “I’ve got to get home, too, I’ll just…” She trailed off and then held out her hand again. “James.”

“Sally.”

“It was nice seeing you, Chris.”

“You, too.”

With one last smile at them both, she brushed past them and went towards the check-out.

“Christopher?” James asked.

“Shush.”


	37. #37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [azrielen](http://azrielen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “I'd love to request something where one of them gets fired up over some new tech/weapon/etc. Maybe Q goes down to the range and sees Bond trying something out that he's put together especially for him. Wherever that leads, I just love the image. <3”  
> Just a little something to let you guys know I’m still here, just very, very busy. Thank you for being so patient with me. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, listen to this while reading: My Brightest Diamond, [Inside a Boy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB-FLxglSOA).

_Inside a boy_  
 _I found a universe_  
 _And in his eyes_  
 _Are a thousand stars_  
 _On a dark sky_

It's one of those nights when Bond can't sleep. Maybe it's because he's alone, or maybe it's because even his own company is too much; the difference lies somewhere between the sounds of his own breathing, in that snatch of silence that's neither an end nor a beginning. It's a silence that's his because he's counting it out with heartbeats and his lungs, and it's Q's because he has to work through the night, again, otherwise his breaths and pauses would be Bond's companions; and it's London's, for the sighs and groans it's giving, knowing there's always someone awake to hear. His silence belongs to him and then it doesn't, he breathes and then he doesn't.

He exists, and then he doesn't. The world doesn't remember him.

_We are clouds, we are whispers_  
 _Like fawns and shape-shifters_  
 _Our edges can never be found out_  
 _No, our edges keep moving further out_

He kills, and then he doesn't; he sleeps, and then he doesn't; he vandalises parts of the world, and then he doesn't. It's a rhythm, and then it isn't, because it could end any day. One day Q asks him whether the deaths and the destruction ever become mundane to him--he says that he remembers every single one. Q nods. It's a good answer until it isn't.

Bond swings his legs out of bed and grabs his clothes; to go for a run or just a wander. He passes through the living room on his way out, grabbing his keys, when his eyes immediately land on the slim, black case that he doesn't remember being there this afternoon. Atop it, there's a note.

'Just in case you get bored enough to actually move your arse. Q'

_We are stars colliding_  
 _Now we crash_  
 _Like lightening into love_  
 _Love_

When Q has successfully helped averting international mayhem and a diplomatic crisis the size of Belgium, he already knows. (A Quartermaster always knows.)

He packs up for the night and heads down to the range--it is a proper range now, a small parcour, even, that Q designed over breakfast one morning, shielding his scrap of paper from Bond's prying eyes with a section of the paper that he never reads.

_In his arms_  
 _I'm unwinding_  
 _Under his kiss_  
 _I'm falling into love_

The corridor is quiet, of course it is; and then Q pushes the door open and there's feet against the ground, a breath that he knows as well as his own, a breath that tells him that this is the fifth round. Q smiles; and there, that's the sound that's led them here. A shot, a pause, a silence like the one between breaths, except that the shot can be anything, but the silence that follows it is always the beginning of an end.

_We are stars colliding_  
 _Now we crash_  
 _Like lightening into love_

Bond knows he's there, although he crouches and rolls off his shoulder as if he didn't; until he stands right in the middle of the range, his back to Q. He looks over his shoulder as he slides in a new magazine, and the silence that stretches is their own.

_We are stars colliding_  
 _Now we crash_  
 _Like lightening into love, love_  
 _Love, love_

And as Q watches, James puts a bullet into the last target's head.

_Love, love, love, love, love_

And five around its heart.


	38. #38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “I'd love you forever if you did one on Q crying, and Bond comforting. <3”  
> Warning for this one: major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, um, this turned angsty. And sad. Well, of course it did, but… ow.  
> Also, Q’s real identity in this is the same as in #36, but this is a different universe. I just really like the name.  
> Go ahead and give Laurence Fox a [listen](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/37644009418/laurence-fox-gunfight), he’s amazing.  
> Disclaimer: clearly, I’m not a medical expert.

Bond had six more months to live.  
That’s what they’d told him when he’d woken up in hospital, with gauze wrapped around his head in six different directions and half his scalp missing.

_Don't fall in love, if you don't want a gunfight,_  
 _If you're not prepared to fall._

He’d caught a bullet to the head in Istanbul. Not even a direct hit, a bouncer, an errand shot that he’d heard ricochet through the tunnel, trying to anticipate its trajectory even as it pierced his skull. The irony was that that in itself wasn’t what was killing him. Oh, they’d gotten the bullet out alright. What they couldn’t do anything about was the aneurysm that had formed while he’d been down there, unconscious, before medical evac had come for him. Inoperable, they’d said, too risky a place to try and remove it, even if they could get at it.

He’d been removed from active duty the same day.

 *

When he went to MI6 to gather his things three weeks later—it wasn’t as if he had an office, but there were always _things_ lying around somewhere—the looks on people’s faces ranged from pity to surprise to abject horror at seeing him on his feet at all.

Dead man walking.

What else was there to say? He didn’t begrudge them their silence.

Tanner and Eve looked up when he entered the ante-room to Mallory’s office, and smiled, remaining in their seats at her desk, coordinating appointments. He stepped around, laying a hand on Bill’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and kissed Moneypenny’s cheek. They knew that goodbyes were never any good, so they didn’t make one of it.

M was as calm and direct as always, but he stood from his office chair when Bond stepped through, and that told him all he needed to know.

Then came the hardest part.

He found Q tinkering with endless lines of code, sipping tea in uncannily regular intervals. The Quartermaster turned at the sudden hush that had fallen after Bond’s entry. His dark eyes scrutinised Bond from behind his glasses, taking in the sharp cut of his suit, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his movements, all the things that were still the same.

“Hello,” was all he said, turning back towards the screen. Bond stepped closer, letting his eyes wander across the monitors. In a corner, there was a GPS signal, blinking as an indicator of movement, labelled ‘007, Helsinki.’ Three weeks.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s alright. Mind you, he nearly blew up a consulate yesterday; I’m beginning to think the number is cursed.”

Bond smirked. “Are you allowed to tell me that?”

“You’re still an employee of MI6.”

“With the security clearance of a coffee maker.”

“Did you come down here to complain?”

“No. No, I wanted to ask you something.”

_I'm sorry, dear, I'm looking for a ray of sun in here.  
In the end, there is another sunrise._

Q moved into the guest room in James’ flat the following evening.

James didn’t expect anything, of course he didn’t—he’d asked as a friend. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d been stupidly in love with Q for at least three of the four years they’d worked together. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that he asked Q not because the young Quartermaster was the only one he trusted without an immediate family and therefore the best live-in emergency-button friend he had, but because he wanted to spend the last months of his life with someone he loved. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit to Q that having someone there to keep him sane and his mind off the tedium of a quiet life was only one line of the story. That seeing a face he dreamt about when his nights weren’t filled with screams and blood as often as he could before his time was up _was_ the story.

_Oh I know that we're at war,_  
 _But, honey, please, before I sleep._  
 _I want to wine you, dine you, not deny you;_  
 _Hold you higher, always higher._  
 _I'm sorry for my words—_

But he didn’t, because that wasn’t how it worked between them. Q was a friend; he liked him, apparently well enough to abandon his own flat to periodic check-ups and to make himself at home in James’ kitchen, stocking the cupboards with his favourite blends of tea. When James opened the one on the far left to get his coffee, he stopped short at the Earl Grey and Darjeeling at first, before remembering that he had a flatmate now. Then, he clenched his jaw, wondering how long it would take him to get used to it, to marvel at it instead of feeling that tiny pique of intrusion; how long he’d allow himself to take it for granted before the blood vessel in his brain burst and he’d never open a kitchen cupboard again.

He shut the door with a decisive thump. He couldn’t have it all, but he’d take what he could get.

They lived the quiet life, mostly. Two days in, Q told him his real name.

_Our wars are fuelled by a lifestyle, baby_  
 _It's time to change it, to turn, and walk away_  
 _My vices perfectly primed,_  
 _My hands have been so beautifully tied_

Q traded shifts or delegated responsibilities where he could. He’d argued with M over the things he could and the things he wouldn’t let anyone take off his hands; and he’d argued with James over the amount of time he spent at the flat.

“I said I needed company, not a guardian, Christopher!”

“You’d go bonkers without me here to pass the time!”

“That doesn’t mean you have to put your life on hold indefinitely, does it?”

Q had looked up at him, sharply, as if he’d punched him in the gut. “It’s not indefinitely, James.” He’d winced immediately. “I don’t mean… I’m not just biding… I didn’t agree because—time doesn’t matter!”

“Good, because I don’t have any.” He’d picked up the second PS2 controller and they’d settled in for a long, long game after that.

In the evening, James announced they were going out for dinner. He dragged Q to the little Indian place Eve had taken them on her birthday once. He couldn’t drink anymore due to the meds he had to take, so when he toasted Q with his mineral water and said, “I’m glad you’re my flatmate,” at least they both knew he meant it.

Q smiled, but somewhere along the way his face slipped into a frown. “Is there anyone you want me to call? I mean, when…”

James shook his head. “Standard procedure as every time I die, Q. Pack it up, put it in storage, and God help the poor soul who has to go through all of it again in ten years before it’s trashed. Just…,” he hesitated, but he might as well say it. “You go through it first. Take anything you like.”

Q looked at him, askance. “But—”

“Humour me, Chris,” was all James said to quell his objections, and his friend nodded.

_Oh I know that we're at war,_  
 _But, honey, please, before I sleep._  
 _I want to wine you, dine you, not deny you._  
 _Hold you higher, always higher._  
 _I'm sorry for my words—_

Some days, James couldn’t get out of bed. He felt deceptively fine most of the time, but sometimes he awoke nauseous and disoriented, incapable of gaining his balance. When that happened, he just sank back into the pillows, trying to breathe evenly to stop the world from spinning and his stomach from trying to escape through his throat. Sometimes, he was still sleepy enough to drift off again, but mostly he just waited until he heard Q putter about the flat. Since James was usually up before or at the same time as him, he always came to check on him.

Today was one of those days. Three months left now. It would take a while longer, but he could feel the fatigue settling in his bones sometimes. Q could always tell.

“James?”

Bond grunted.

“Can I come in?”

James patted the mattress beside him, keeping his eyes closed, and a few seconds later, he felt Q sit next to him, cross-legged.

“How bad is it?”

“Six out of ten, I think.”

“Do you want me to call the hospital?”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

They fell silent, James imagined Q nodding in acquiescence to his answer.

“Do you think you’re going back to sleep?”

“I doubt it. Too awake. Stay for a bit?”

“Course.” Q’s weight shifted until he was sitting level with James’ head, shielding him from the bright light coming in, despite the curtains. It was June.

“Thanks.”

A few more minutes passed quietly.

“James, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Q gave a little pause that communicated his irritation; then: “You’re never angry.”

Bond gave a little snort. “Really? That’s your line?”

“They’re called stages of grief for a reason, you know.”

“00 agents don’t have time to go through five stages of grief in the field, Chris.”

“You aren’t the field right now, James, you won’t be for a while.”

Slowly, James turned his head and gingerly opened his eyes. “If it helps, the nurses had to tie me down the first week in hospital, or I would have trashed my room.”

The look on Q’s face is the one James knows he will wear during the funeral.

_Only love, only love, only love_  
 _Can save_  
 _Only hope, only hope_  
 _Drives this fear away_  
 _I want to live, I want to live_  
 _I don't want to die_

A week after that, the walls came tumbling down around them.

Q sat up straight in bed, jolted out of sleep. Shaking his head to clear it, he listened until he was sure that what he’d heard wasn’t just an illusion. When James screamed again, Q bolted from the bed and from the guest room, darting across the hall, not even bothering with his glasses. Within seconds, he was kneeling next to James on the bed, trying to secure his thrashing form without getting knocked out himself.

“James, James, wake up. It’s just a nightmare, James, come on, you’re safe. You’re safe, James, it’s me, it’s Chris, come on, come back.” Finally, James calmed down, just twitching slightly with the lingering images his brain assaulted him with. Q bent down towards him, his voice, though still raspy with sleep, as commanding as he could make it. “Come back to me, James.”

With a start, James’ eyes flew open, staring at Q hovering above him. He was breathing heavily and it took him a while to get it back under control. Q sat back and was about to let go of James’ shoulders when the ex-agent’s hands closed around his wrists, holding his hands where they were.

“What is it?” he inquired softly.

“Chris.” James’ voice broke on his name, and through the cracks Q could see fear, self-reproach, and need, tumbling towards him; beyond James’ control and out of Q’s reach.

“I know,” he whispered, sliding underneath the thin sheet James used as a blanket with him, closing his eyes when James curled up against him.

When James woke up in the morning, he tried to twist away from Q without disturbing him, but Q grabbed his arm and pulled him back to plant a kiss on his bare shoulder. James stared at him, unmoving; Q smiled. His smiles were always without pity.

“Took us long enough.”

From that night on, they shared James’ bed.

When one month was left, James asked that there would be no goodbyes.

_I want to wine you, dine you, not deny you._  
 _Hold you higher, always higher._  
 _I'm sorry for my words—_

His six months were up.

When James couldn’t get up one morning, couldn’t even move without seeing two of everything, his head nearly splitting in two with the pain, they knew it was time. Q called the hospital with trembling fingers, James' right hand wrapped around his thigh, holding on tightly.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, for James more than for Q. They gave him morphine, the good stuff, so he drifted in and out for a few hours; woke to a doctor shining a light in his eyes and Q holding his hand.

James liked to think that he could feel it burst, that he knew when the vessel broke and the blood that kept him alive turned against him, causing his brain to swell, haemorrhaging and eventually turning off the light in his eyes. He could feel it dim as Q squeezed his hand and moved closer. He must have made a noise.

Or was that Q? He concentrated, tried to focus until he could discern the sounds of someone crying.

“It’s alright,” he tried to say, though he had no idea what it actually sounded like. A shadow fell over him and lips pressed against his forehead, a tear fell from Q’s chin. James could feel it splash against his skin.

It was the last thing he felt before he slipped under, welcoming the darkness.

_I want you to wine me, dine me, not deny me.  
Hold me higher, so much higher._


	39. #39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “00Q request - Mistletoe. Preferably at some … MI6 Christmas party or something.”  
> Something to cheer us up after… that horrible thing I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, um, I’m aware that it’s been a while - some of you may also be aware that I’ve been preparing my BA thesis, among other things, since I returned to Europe, so at least I have a good excuse. Anyway, I have not forgotten about my two precious idiots, so here we go. Any schmoop can be blamed on Howard Shore and The Hobbit cast, I haven’t listened to anything but the soundtrack to An Unexpected Journey in a week.

“Wondering when the moment you can decently get up and leave is due to arrive, James?” Tanner asked innocently enough when he sat down next to him. Bond shot him a look and took another sip of wine.

“I’m not that surly,” he asserted, though he knew that Bill already knew that. As much as the concept of work-related Christmas parties befuddled 007, the simultaneous grievance and ill-advised contentment he felt at being there attested to the fact that MI6 was his family. Laden with explosives, inter-departmental quarrels, and trust issues; but a family nonetheless - or perhaps those were exactly what made it one.

“Even so,” the Chief of Staff nudged him lightly with his elbow. “Mix a little, talk to people. We all know that you’re the only one who remembers everyone’s babies and grandmothers’ names. Show off a little.”

Then, Bond did scowl, something he’d successfully avoided for about three hours, which he took no small amount of pride in.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, you’re right, it isn’t. So, get a move on. Make your rounds, and I’ll tell M you behaved.”

“I’d accuse you of scheming, but I’m all too aware that that’s part of your job description and therefore makes for a poor insult, if not a compliment,” Bond grumbled even as he gathered his wits about him to leave.

“Too right,” Tanner had the gall to preen at him, and Bond rolled his eyes. He then stood and gave Bill’s shoulder a firm pat.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, and only waited long enough for Tanner to raise his glass in salutation before he turned to leave.

He made his way around the floor of the building that had temporarily transformed into the international espionage equivalent of office Christmases - he was pretty sure he’d spied a testing replica of his gun adorned with a Santa hat earlier - and made enough small talk to last him until next Christmas. James was vaguely aware of people bumping into each other and exchanging hugs or simple kisses on the cheek underneath twigs of mistletoe haphazardly swinging from the ceiling in odd places, but he was careful to sidestep getting stuck under one.

Bond was about to leave when he caught sight of Q and Eve shanghaiing two younger officers from the Decoding department into a game of poker. He hithered and dithered a bit (mentally berating himself), before deciding to make his way over (mentally cuffing himself ‘round the ear) and asking Q to step that way for a moment (mentally drowning himself in the kitchen sink).

“Merry Christmas, 007,” Q greeted him happily, in much the same way he’d “found” him in the tube station all those months ago, and Bond had to fight not to wince at the fondness he felt for that tone - and the rest of him.

“Merry Christmas, Q,” he quickly recovered; even managed an only slightly thin-lipped smile. “I was about to go, actually, but I wanted to wish you happy holidays and all that, and...”

“Yes?” Q prompted patiently when James trailed off.

“Well, I... I suppose I should thank you, for your work during this disaster-riddled first year. You’ve saved my hide a few times, and I promise not to mock your pin-sized radios again. Well, all of the time,” he smirked.

The Quartermaster chuckled, a surprisingly dark, pleasing sound. “Although I actually really wouldn’t mind less yammering and more incoming calls to retrieve international terrorists, I suppose we’ll make do.”

Bond nodded, smiling again, and was about to extricate himself when Q spoke again.

“Saving your hide is my job, 007 - but I’m always glad to hear my work is appreciated.”

James had just about managed to stop his smile from escalating into a beam and was starting to formulate an Excuse Me and Good Evening when suddenly he realised that people were staring. He cast a quick glance around, telling himself that it was three seconds too early to start worrying. He started worrying immediately.

“What’s going on?” he murmured, initially confused when all Q did was give a short nod upwards. As he followed Q’s directions and looked up, however, he cursed himself for his blunder.

“Fine, then,” he sighed. “Since everyone’s staring, and no-one’s going to let us live it down if we turn tails... any preferences?”

Q tilted his head before him, narrowing his eyes just enough to worry the agent. “You make an innocent tradition sound like a bad thing.”

“I don’t like misplaced, presumptuous greenery.”

“Presumptuous, how so?”

“Telling people who to kiss in front of everyone else, just by hanging there.”

“What, out of shame because the other might still have spots?”

Bond’s mouth went a little dry when he thought what he’d heard was not just teasing, but something sharp, with a pointy end; and when he couldn’t decide whom it was designed to sting.

“No, out of the conviction that one’s private matters are just that, private,” he snapped quietly, knowing full well that he’d just said more than he’d wanted to. An innocent peck on the cheek between co-workers was nothing to be private about, not even at MI6, not at bloody Christmas.

Q took a step closer to him. “Be quick about it, then,” he challenged, though the brittle edge was gone; and James didn’t have to be told twice, not when he was a selfish bastard and entitled to a Christmas wish.

“Fine,” he said again, and then closed the distance between them. Curling one hand loosely around Q’s upper arm, he pressed his lips against the corner of Q’s mouth. James felt the warmth rising in him double when that corner quirked into a smile beneath his touch.


	40. #40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [Lele](http://tonystaarks.tumblr.com) on tumblr: “btw i know you are busy but andrea can you please write overprotective!James fic for me one day / something like 5 times James was overprotective and the one time the roles reversed”  
> Course I can! Trying my hand at dialogue fic, too...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking some liberties with the Torchwood hub--let’s just assume it didn’t _quite_ blow to pieces...

**1.**

“Q? Where are you off to?”

“Oh, hello, 007. MI5 found something very interesting in a basement in Cardiff.”

“Cardiff?”

“Yes, they found fascinating things in the bay, buried deep underground, but in a preserved structure. Sort of like a hub.”

“Full of interesting, very complicated things to set the world on fire with, no doubt.”

“Well, that. And they did say there was a pterodactyl involved.”

“A what?”

“A pterodactyl. You know, airborne dinosaur, screeches a lot.”

“I know what it does, Q, generally, but why would someone build a model and trap it in an underground hub? In Cardiff?”

“It’s not a model. Now, don’t give me that blank stare. Anything’s possible.”

“Dinosaurs went extinct a couple of millions of years ago, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes. And now, one’s turned up in Cardiff. Well, turned up ages ago, apparently; and Torchwood... kept it.”

“Torchwood? Kept it? As one would a pet?”

“Yeah. MI5 emailed me the files they managed to pull off their computers; they were salvaging alien tech, by the looks of it.”

“Alien--? Q, April Fool’s Day was months ago!”

“I’m not joking, James. There’s a rift through time and space that runs straight through Cardiff, and sometimes, things just... drift in. It’s common knowledge. Ask anyone for a blowfish in a sportscar, residents know where to point you.”

“Oh, really.”

“Well, in Wales, anyway.”

“Why are you putting on your coat?”

“To go out, and take a car to Wales, to go look at the excavated hub, and the pterodactyl.”

“Have they caged it?”

“James.”

“Have they caged it?”

“No, not yet. And besides, it’s, well, domesticated, for lack of a better word. They did leave a note.”

“Oh, well, if they _left a note_ , I’m sure it’s fine. Does it play fetch?”

“Ugh... you want to come along, don’t you?”

“Oh, you know me: alien tech, I’m first in line.”

“They do seem to have some great weaponry down there...”

“There you are, then.”

“Not that anyone with half a brain is going to let you near any of it.”

“I’m sure I can find someone entirely brainless among the ranks of MI5 in under a minute...”

“James, I know why you’re being so stubborn.”

“I know that you know. When are we leaving?”

“Why do I bother...”

**2.**

“James, I’m fine!”

“You have the flu. You are therefore, by definition, not ‘fine.’ And, since you’re not ‘fine,’ you’ll stay here, get some rest, and wait until the antibiotics kick in before you go back to work.’”

“And what if something happens? What if the servers crash? What if several agents need to be deployed and tracked at once, simultaneously?”

“Then _someone_ will deploy and track them. That someone being Tanner and the geek squad, not you.”

“We need to change your codename.”

“Into what?”

“00MotherHen.”

“Put that request in writing, Mallory will love it. And now put that laptop away or so help me.”

**3.**

“ _You’re doing what?_ ”

“You heard me, I’m cooking.”

“ _Not after a week with about four hours of sleep, you’re not._ ”

“I am! I’m Paul Bocuse on four hours of sleep.”

“ _You’re going to do yourself grievous bodily harm with a spoon on four hours of sleep._ ”

“James, you’re doing that stubborn thing again.”

“ _And I wonder why... Look, just stay away from the knives, I’ll be over in twenty minutes._ ”

“Can’t, I’m chopping an onion. Whoops!”

“ _Q? What happened?_ ”

“The onion hopped off the counter.”

“ _Don’t. move._ ”

“James, the angry growling thing doesn’t work that well over the phone, I told you that.”

“ _You did, and I still think it’s a lie to stop me from doing it when I’m on speaker at the office._ ”

“It just doesn’t carry well.”

“ _Are your pants on fire yet?_ ”

“No, the stove isn’t--oh, very funny!”

**4.**

“I really don’t understand why it has to be you with a bomb strapped to your chest, surrounded by gunmen.”

“Because I know how to surreptitiously dismantle it in three seconds flat after they strap it on me and shove me into the square.”

“A square surrounded by gunmen, waiting for their orders.”

“Who our lot are going to sneak up on and disarm before they know what’s hit them; and I’ll be fine.”

“Unless one of them’s trigger-happy.”

“James.”

“It’s a bad idea!”

“007, in your esteemed opinion, how many bad ideas have I had in the past few months?”

“At least one a day.”

“And yet, has any of them not worked out?”

“No.”

“So stop grinding your teeth. Literally. They’re gonna hear you outside.”

**5.**

“Q?”

“Speak up, 007, those doors are designed to cancel out at least most of the office noise.”

“Q, what are you doing? Why are the desks rigged with explosives?”

“I want to test a theory.”

“By rigging every single desk in your department with C4?”

“It’s small packages, 007, they won’t do much harm.”

“Not on their own, but the combined blast--”

“Oh, please, they won’t all go off at the same time! Stop pounding on that bloody door with your fist, 007, you’ll upset the wiring!”

“Q!”

“They’re not going to explode, for goodness’ sake, it’s just an experiment! If I can randomise my own safeguards and then still get past them, under added pressure, on a time limit, and under, thanks to you, adverse conditions, I can take the programming to the next stage.”

“You realise that I don’t care?”

“Yes, I am. Now, please, stand back.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure that I quite--”

*whoomp*

**+1**

“James, you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s a case, Q, a case like any other, and I’m going to take it.”

“It’s a fool’s errand!”

“Well, I’m the best-suited fool out there.”

“It’s going to devour you, suck out your soul, and then spit the remains of you onto the pavement!”

“Q!”

“Don’t try and deny it!”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“It’s madness!”

“It’s politics!”

“Yes, it’s a desk and boss you have to see every day instead of every few weeks, and paper and a stapler and, oh God, you’re actually going to have to answer your phone when it rings!”

“It’s just Westminster. It’s Parliament, I know my way around.”

“You’re going to be the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff, James. You’re going to be _that suit_. It’s the undercover job you never wanted!”

“It’s just for a month.”

“Yeah, well, unless the coffee kills you first.”


	41. #41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [Rachel](http://jimkirksass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “yay okay so in the spirit of Halloween, Q dresses up as an agent, you know with the nice suit and aviators; and James sees him and wow is rather turned on because it’s Q in a suit! I just like suit porn a lot and I blame the suits fandom for this yup”

MI6 never had time for any shenanigans in the office except for the big Christmas party; but sometimes eggs would turn up for Easter, and occasionally an ominous silly hat could be found on a desk in honour of a birthday. For Halloween, no-one actually dared dress up for fear of being firmly dressed down by section chiefs or, worse, M himself.

As fond as Q was of rules, however, there was a persistent little idea that had taken up residence on his shoulder and was impertinently whispering into his ear.

Three weeks ‘til Halloween.  
  
James enjoyed having to work on Halloween for simple reasons.  
Working meant he didn’t have to be home and sit through minutes of knocking on his door and children yelling ‘Trick or treat!’ until even their loving parents wanted to stuff them down a manhole.  
Working meant he didn’t have to see everyone dress up as vampires and doctors and pilots and warlocks, or... as agents.  
Some were easily recognisable as Smiley’s sons, John Le Carré spies; with slicked-back hair and wearing old-fashioned suits, and hats that were a little too big, a cigarette dangling from their lips and a bulge at the ankle where they’d strapped a pocketknife to their legs.  
Others were Mission: Impossible types, with tight black gear and leather harnesses, headsets, and backpack straps dangling to mid-thigh; wearing sunglasses even in the dark after the binge.  
  
When Q dressed for work that morning, the feeling of soft, expensive fabric sliding over his skin nearly filled him with apprehension. Not that he wasn’t used to wearing suits, this was different—it was a step up from his usual price range, and a new cut. He’d actually gone to see a tailor for this one, and he couldn’t afford to devolve into his usual, slightly rumpled self after ten minutes of moving in it.  
So he wouldn’t.  
He grabbed the custom-made shades from the table by the door as he left.  
  
Bond usually hated traipsing through Whitehall on the search for occupation, but today it was time well-spent. M had ordered him to remain in the office until MI6 could be sure that the anticipated situation in Peru was, in fact, escalating; and so he was left to his own devices, basically on stand-by. Smirking, he made his way down the stairs, heading for Q Branch.  
  
What he saw when he stepped through the glass door into the geeks’ domain, nothing could have prepared him for.  
Q was wearing a suit. An expensive suit, by the looks of it; in a dark blue that changed its hue in the pulsing light from the screens and monitors. Q, still oblivious to James’ presence (or at least pretending to be, James never quite knew), changed his stance, and the fabric accommodated his movements, smoothly following the shift of muscles and skin underneath.

Walking closer, he cleared his throat to alert Q; earning a waving hand.

“I know you’re there, 007; do step up. I hear you’re bored.”

“I wouldn’t say bored, Q,” Bond swiftly revised his usual opinion of stand-by office time.

As soon as he was close enough, Q turned towards him fully, James blinked. Once. Twice.

That was... his suit. With alterations in the cut to fit Q’s more slender proportions, of course, but this was his blue suit; and that was his white shirt, and that were his aviator shades tucked into the breast pocket.  
He knew what the fabric would feel like if he touched it, would know the slide of its texture against his skin; and he was itching to reach out and do it, because there were things he didn’t know. How Q’s warmth would feel through the layers, how it would feel to curve his hand around a suit-clad hip, feeling the material bunch a little as he dug in his fingertips, how it would feel to smooth out the lapels and keep going, to feel the twitch of Q’s stomach muscles underneath.

“A costume, Q? Really?” he teased. He knew he was smiling, and he knew his eyes had just taken the elaborate journey his fingers wanted.

“Well, it’s not quite a disguise...,” Q shot back, corner of his mouth lifting.

“No... it’s much better than that.”  
  
Later.


	42. #42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asked by someone (I can't find the ask anymore, so if you recognise this as your prompt, make sure to leave me a comment!) on tumblr: “A retired Bond (either forcibly retired by injury or just fed up of waking up in strange countries, half dead, in pain and thousands of miles from the love of his life) and Q with their child/children. Pure fluff and silliness and normality. Pretty, pretty please???”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for this finally struck when I was listening to Laurence Fox’s “Mostly Water,” which he wrote for his two sons. Give his EP (Sorry For My Words) a listen, it’s gorgeous and it’s on iTunes (go on, get the man some royalties). “Mostly Water” is [up on my tumblr for easy access while you read](http://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/45491888846/laurence-fox-mostly-water).

James had come home late—not from work as an endangered species (Clandestinus Agentus), but from a visit to Scotland. Months ago, Kincaid had contacted him about either rebuilding or turning out the estate, and James had travelled up to assess the state of the ruin and the surrounding grounds. He’d planned on being home earlier, but he’d been held up by traffic and, to be entirely honest, by taking more time during the drive this time around. He’d taken in the scenery, had allowed himself to be assaulted by memories of him and his father hiking through the glens, his mother's reprimands to be careful still ringing in his ears.

He hadn’t set foot in the chapel where M had died, hadn’t looked towards his parents’ grave. He’d stood before the empty, blackened husk of a dreary house that had once been his home, and he wasn’t sure he wanted anything more to do with it. No, it wasn’t a wonder he’d never come back. Q had drawn up archive material once, had examined the house that even in colour pictures seemed lifeless and damp. Skyfall was no place for a family, much less for _his_ family, James had decided that long since, back when he hadn’t even known whether he’d ever again have a family.

He hadn’t given Kincaid his answer right away, had only taken stock of the place and said that he needed more time to think about it. Kincaid knew, though, knew that he’d never return.

Q greeted James at the door, kissing him quickly and running a hand through his hair, before explaining he had to go back to the living room to continue an urgent video call with Tanner.

“ _Something_ came up,” he murmured with a dry smile. “I won’t be long, and then we can talk.”

James nodded, relaxing into the familiar warmth of their house. “I’ll say goodnight to the boys.”

“They missed you,” Q said, then turned and left James in the hall. “Coming, Bill!”

James set down his bag, hung up his coat and took off his shoes at the coat rack, then quietly walked down the hall. Second door on the right.

 _Too late to see you awake  
_ _As I get home, tiptoe to the place where you sleep  
_ _I long to find you awake,  
_ _As I open your door, I see you’ve drifted away_  

The lights were already off, and only the sliver coming in from the hallway illuminated the inside of the bedroom. Two beds, two nightstands, two small figures wrapped tightly into blankets and pillows, two sets of eyes closed in slumber. Silently, James crept in, reaching John first. Seven years old, they’d had him for three years, adopted from an orphanage after his parents had died in a car accident near Birmingham. The small boy with brown hair and eyes as green as the grass outside was a merry little rascal, though quieter than his older brother. James crouched down next to his bed, softly brushing his fingers through the strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead in his sleep. John stirred, but did not wake.

_You’re mostly water_  
 _Science has told me so_  
 _If you’re mostly water  
_ _How can I love you so?_

John slept peacefully now, James knew. Early on, he’d had nightmares; though Q and James weren’t always entirely sure of what. His parents, certainly—he hadn’t been with them in the accident, but although he had taken well to his new home, _something_ had haunted him that had been worse than night terrors. Eventually, after about a year, the bad dreams had subsided, and shortly after had been the first time he’d called James ‘Papa’ and Q ‘Dad.’ 

_Some say that life’s a machine,_  
 _And when it comes to the end,_  
 _The light just simply goes out_  
 _Others are startled by God and all their fears and doubts  
_ _But there is no easy way out_

Carefully, James went over to the other bed, smiling down at David. Twelve years old now, he was the first and fiercest protector of his brother, and although James and Q were fully prepared to have him ask for his own room soon, for now he didn’t yet mind sharing with little John. James wrapped his hand around David’s that was peeking out from under the covers, holding on for just a moment, smirking at the way David’s blonde hair would probably always stand up in all directions no matter what he did. They’d adopted him when he was five. He’d been given up for adoption after birth and had already been in several foster families. In one, his foster father had died of a heart attack and his wife hadn’t been able to support all three foster children on her own; in the next, the biological daughter of the couple who’d taken him in had been jealous and started bullying him. After that, he’d just come back to the orphanage when James and Q had applied for adoption.

James’ heart clenched when he remembered the looks on both of his boys’ faces when they’d first met him and Q. They’d been brave, but scared, and each time, for a brief moment, James had found himself back in that priest’s hole, shaking and shivering for two days before coming out and beginning his life as a lost child.

These two boys right here weren’t lost anymore; and neither was James. He had a husband, and together, they had two sons. He’d never thought he’d be so lucky, or so happy, but his life had begun the day he’d asked Q to marry him and had then stepped into Mallory’s office and retired from duty, for good this time.

“Lost a step?” Mallory had asked with a smirk, though his eyes were kind and knowing.

“No,” James had replied easily. “I’ve found it.” 

_They’re mostly water_  
 _They don’t know where they’re going_  
 _There’s a life to be had here  
_ _Wherever we’re going_

Little John was an adventurer, much like David, and although James hadn’t yet told them the exact details of what he’d used to do for a living before retiring, he knew that at least one of them might decide to follow in his footsteps. He dreaded the day either—or possibly both—of them made that decision, but part of him couldn’t help but hope that, if they did, they’d do it for the right reasons. Most of James’ reasons had nearly destroyed him, but if his sons grew up with his pathetic love of country and a ready sense of duty, then that was simply life doing as it pleased.

James shook his head lightly, clearing it of such sombre thoughts. Those things were still a long way off, and they’d take their steps one at a time. While David was keen on science and history, John had a penchant for art and languages; and God knew what kind of opportunities would reveal themselves over time. Both were avid readers, so James happily deluded himself that they might open a bookshop together one day.

_I didn’t make the world, the world made me first  
_ _But when you get to the sea, you’ll see me first_

Until then and after that, he’d do anything for them, anything to make their dreams come true. A small smile had appeared on John’s face while he’d been sitting there, and James wondered if he was seeing his future. 

_You’re mostly water_  
 _That’s what they always say_  
 _But they’re mostly water  
_ _So how fucking dare they?_

James let go of David’s hand, then slowly stood up and bent down to press a kiss to his hair. He went back to John and repeated the gesture; then straightened and whispered, “Good night, boys,” into the darkness. He’d be there when they woke.

 _You’re mostly water  
_ _Science has told me so  
_ _If you’re mostly water  
_ _How can I love you so?_  

_And they will tell you to climb,_  
 _But water falls, always falls_  
 _Don’t let them stand you in line,  
_ _‘cause you don’t stand to see much more_


	43. #43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [thesensibleone13](http://thesensibleone13.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “M defending Bond and Q to a politician at a function or something”

“Prime Minister,” Mallory shook Cameron’s hand and smiled reassuringly—which, after the events of the last week, wasn’t entirely convincing, and therefore all the more necessary.

“Mallory,” the PM replied and nodded courteously. “The department is in good order, I trust.”

“Certainly, sir.”

They were joined by a Tory MP whose face Mallory didn’t like having anywhere near his agency; but it couldn’t be helped.

“Mallory,” the man intoned vaguely self-importantly, and already M wished for Tanner to turn up at his elbow with something terribly pressing that couldn’t be left unattended until later. The PM's PA, a very astute young woman, did just that and discreetly extracted her boss so he could exchange pleasantries with Her Majesty's Chief of Staff. Damn.

"That was quite the turnout last week, wasn't it, Mallory? A syndicate of internationally operating terrorists blown up from the inside, quite literally; a mole in the CIA burnt to ashes, not quite literally; and two of your operatives celebrating their survival on national television. With each other." There was a nasty, sneering edge to the man’s voice, and Mallory involuntarily bristled.

"They had just come crawling out of a collapsed metro station in the middle of New York City," Mallory reminded the man. "After, _quite literally_ , saving the world." He remembered watching from his office in Whitehall, Tanner still frantically directing units across Manhattan, as 007 and Q had come stumbling out of a smouldering crater in the pavement. They had blinked into the sun, had stared at each other with incredulity all over their faces; and then one or possibly both of them had closed the gap and grasped blindly to haul each other in for a smacking kiss.

“Still, that’s no way to celebrate for two members of MI6! That Bond is a disgrace to the entire Navy!”

Mallory suppressed a put-upon sigh and the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but are you being homophobic or merely ignorant?”

Watching the MP bluster and fluster was almost a reward in itself.

“Operatives are under a great deal of pressure in the field, and if this is how they compensate, I’m not particularly inclined to lecture them for it. This kind of relationship between a Quartermaster and his agent might not be the most uncomplicated office romance, but if they can handle the end of the world, I’m sure they know the stakes of the game. As for a relationship between two men—the world needs to grow up, and fast. It baffles me that people still think that skill, honour, and a sense of duty and responsibility are somehow linked to sexual preference.”

If it hadn’t been so damn sad, it would have been fun watching the Tory flounder.

“But this is clear insubordination! And to think, two men tasked with this country’s security! I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t an inquiry!”

Mallory inwardly danced a jig in relief when he saw Tanner approaching, looking slightly harried. “What my operatives do is no-one’s business but their own; and mine only if it affects their work. Don’t you agree, Tanner?”

“Entirely, sir. If I may, something has just come in that requires your attention...”

“Of course. Excuse me.”

The still slightly breathless MP nodded and stalked off just as Tanner started leading Mallory from the room, quietly detailing the situation. As soon as they were outside in the hall, Mallory heaved a sigh.

“Sir? Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. The MP I just talked to... make sure we have whatever dirt there is on him, will you?”

“Of course, sir. Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m sentimental.”

 


	44. #44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr:“I've got this idea about Q and 007 having an open relationship, more for James's sake. Q usually doesn't sleep around but one time and for one time only he decides to use his privilege. Then, James comes back and is JEALOUS.”
> 
> Sort of AU from More of a Personal Statement...

Q was considering drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest of the sofa. He considered jiggling his foot, but gave up on the idea. He was back with focusing on the novel he was reading, when he heard the key in the lock to the one-bedroom flat in the North-West of the City.

“Evening!” James called from the door, and Q heard the unmistakable sounds of a bag hitting the floor, a coat being shoved into a cupboard, and keys skidding to the opposite edge of the sideboard in the den in their enthusiasm. He smiled, ignoring the slight strain that it put on the muscles of his face when it usually came so easily.

“There you are.” Bond came wandering in and bent down, giving Q a lingering kiss. “I’ll take a shower and then get back to you.”

Q leaned back a little and gave him the once-over, glad for the distraction. “Is that debris in your hair?”

“Maybe.”

“Go get that shower or so help me.”

“Yes, dear,” the agent smirked and dropped another kiss to Q’s cheek before swaggering off towards the bedroom and en-suite bathroom. As soon as he was out of earshot, Q let out a sigh and settled in with his book, waiting as, at the back of his mind, he registered the sounds of James shoving his battered clothes into the hamper, showering, and rooting around the drawers for his favourite sweats. Q listened as the noises stopped abruptly. He briefly closed his eyes, and then the book. He put it on the coffee table and waited a little longer.

“You changed the sheets,” James said as he came back in and flopped down next to Q on the sofa, rubbing a towel over his head to dry his hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” The sign they’d agreed on beforehand. Normally, Q would now reach over and take the towel from James’ hands.

“Do I know them?” James’ tone was balancing the edge between politely interested and a slowly bruising ego.

“James, that’s not...”

“You always know.”

“I’m on the other side of those comms. I can’t help but know.” Q kept his voice quiet and calm despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I just... want to know.” James was giving him that earnest side-long look, but Q shook his head.

“That’s not part of our agreement, James.”

James’ eyes darkened. “I know them, don’t I? Is it someone from the office? It’s someone from the office.”

“James...”

“Who was it? Eve?”

Q scoffed. “I’m not her type.”

“Bill?”

“Happily married, thank you very much for asking.”

“One of your geeks from downstairs?”

“James, stop guessing.” Q couldn’t help the involuntary sharpening of his tone.

“Yeah, none of them were fidgety when I was downstairs for the debrief...”

“James, just don’t.”

“Hang on...  Mallory told you to take the week off during the mission before I left. Were you planning this? Was he?”

“That is officially ridiculous.”

“Just tell me, then!” James stood up, taking his towel with him, and ended up flinging it over the back of the armchair. Q rubbed the back of his neck and heaved a sigh. It ran counter to their agreement, it wasn’t... Oh, whatever.

“Alright, yes. I slept with him, I slept with Mallory.”

“Why?”

“I am not going to dignify that with a reply!”

“He didn’t... pressure you, did he?”

“Good God, James, of course he didn’t! He didn’t have to, he _wouldn’t_ , and he can’t very well afford to fire me over withheld fellatio, can he?” The second Q said that last part, he regretted it, he did, but then again he wasn’t about to have this collapse on top of him.

“Oh, for... You actually slept with him?”

“Yes, James, I did.” He watched James pace the length of the living room. “We had an agreement.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“You... suggested that deal.”

“And you said that relationships aren’t supposed to be deals!”

“An open relationship, however, is! You suggested it, you told me that you didn’t want me to feel trapped. Do you want me to make a list of how many people you slept with this past month?”

“That’s different!”

“Is it?”

“It’s my job! I sleep with them for the mission!”

“Yes, James, I know that you’re Her Majesty’s gigolo! Trust me, I’m very aware of that fact. But, you know what, I would have stayed with you even if you hadn’t offered to keep this relationship open. If you’d asked if we could keep the job and life separate, that’d have been good enough. You didn’t have to do this, but you did; you said that if I ever felt lonely or just needed to let off some steam, or if you were injured in action, I could... you said sexual exclusivity wasn’t the point, and that you didn't want me to wind up resenting you. Did you mean any of that?”

“You don’t need to reiterate to me what I said!”

“Then what’s your problem, if you clearly remember the terms of the agreement?”

“It’s different!”

“James, if you’ve offered me one thing while assuming another because you didn’t think I’d stick around otherwise, but never seriously expected you’d have to contend with the consequences, then... this isn’t going to work.”

“What, because you chose to go off and shag my boss?” Venom was starting to creep into James’ voice now, and Q rose from the sofa to meet him head-on.

“I can’t believe you’re being so fucking disingenuous! Of all the people... I thought you understood, how hard it is, and that that was why you... But you couldn’t admit it, could you? That you needed me too much to share!”

The agent seemed to deflate a little at that, and he lowered his gaze. “I just... I never thought you'd...”

“What, want for anyone else but you?”

James’ eyes snapped up to his again.

“I don’t, James, not really, not when it matters. But sometimes, there’s just nothing you can do. If we hadn’t both been there in that exact moment, it wouldn’t have happened. But we were, and it did; and nothing was going to change because of it, not for me. You knew that going in, and if you were having second thoughts, you should have told me so immediately. But I see it now: you never had second thoughts, though, did you? ‘Cause you didn’t think it would go this far to begin with, you thought I’d be placated by an illusion and never test the fabric of reality. Well, I did. And I knew it’d surprise you, maybe, but I hadn’t expected... Well done, fooling me like that.” Q ran a hand through his hair and turned away.

“What are you going to do?” James’ voice was flat behind him.

“I don’t know, James. I don’t know.”


	45. #45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [henryclervals](http://henryclervals.tumblr.com/) on tumblr: “Q and James go for a romantic weekend and end up staying in a haunted!hotel. (PS, the minute/ hour hand prompt was mine, and the fix was beautiful!! Thank you so much!) xxx”
> 
> Wrote this while listening to the soundtrack to Suspiria (dir. by Dario Argento). Listen to the main theme here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pins1y0XAa0 I’ve also taken the liberty of borrowing some names, characters, and events from that movie; those of you familiar with it may recognise them. If not, drop me a comment, I’ll gladly point them out.
> 
> Trigger warning: this is horror fiction, so it won’t be pretty, and there will be gore and bad dreams. Nothing too graphic, but if you’re not comfortable with that, best skip this one.

“Are you sure that this is it?” James asked as he got out of the car, knowing full well that Q had probably sneakily utilised MI6’s satellites to guide them to this seemingly godforsaken place.

“Of course I’m sure,” came the cheery reply from the other side. “Freiburg, Germany, in the middle of the Black Forest.” Q opened the boot of the car while James stood, looking up at the inn they’d booked a room in. With its Fachwerk architecture, the wood black as ebony and the facade a deep red, the house seemed torn between homeliness and audacious beauty. Not a lot of sun came through the high trees, casting shadow upon shadow on the back of the house.

“It’s the only house in a radius of ten miles. In a quite literally Black Forest,” James remarked when he could finally tear his eyes away from the woodwork.

“That’s the Gothic charm of it all, 007,” Q quipped.

“Have you never... no, of course you haven’t, you weren’t even born when that movie came out...” James trailed off, moving to take their luggage off Q’s hands.

“Which movie?”

James was about to answer when a little old lady appeared in the doorway of the inn, a pale young boy trailing behind her.

“Ach, mir war doch so, als hätt’ ich Stimmen gehört. Willkommen in der Pension Markos!”

“Vielen Dank,” James replied in slightly accented German. “Wir sind die Gäste aus London,” he added as he let go of one of the suitcases to shake her hand.

“Oh! Well, in that case, welcome in the Black Forest,” she amended in English, her accent tinged heavily with her local dialect. Q gave her an easy smile as he greeted her.

“Come in, come in. I’ll, äh, show you to your room. Albert, sag Mark bescheid, dass wir Gäste haben.” The boy nodded and ran along.

*

“It’s a lovely house,” Q said, his fingers tracing the outline of the tinted glass panes above the door. “That’s tulips, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” James said while lazily stretching his back on the mattress. “Come on, I’m so tired I’d suspect them of putting something in my wine if I didn’t know that I’d been ordered on this holiday by M himself.”

“Mmh. The food was really good,” Q suppressed a yawn as he turned off the main light and climbed into bed next to Bond. They were both out like the proverbial light soon after they’d switched off the bed stand lights.

*

A couple of hours into the night, Q woke suddenly, but not with a start. He had to claw his way to consciousness inch by inch, as if coming through a haze. Expecting to feel the solid warmth of James’ body behind him, he leaned back, but the bed beside him was empty. The strange heaviness still lingering just behind his eyes like a bad headache, he groped for his glasses on the nightstand; but putting them on couldn’t help him in the impenetrable darkness cast by the forest outside their window. He peered through the curtains in front of the window above the bed; the night was without a moon.

“James?” he asked quietly, waiting for his eyes to adjust, although he knew they wouldn’t, and squinting to the right, in the general direction of their en-suite bathroom. No light came through under the door, and there were no noises indicating someone moving about in the dark. “James?” he asked again. His right hand wandered underneath James’ pillow on instinct — the gun was gone, too. Q was debating whether to get dressed and go in search of him when he heard a solid thud in the hall.

He sat up abruptly and reached for his phone — why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? — but that had vanished from its place on the nightstand as well. Q slowly stood up and made his way to the door, careful not to tread on any creaking floorboards. Reaching the door, he pressed his ear against it. What he could hear made the hair on the back of his neck stand up against his will: laboured, raspy breaths, almost a rattle, and the sounds of something heavy being dragged along the hall.

Q knew that they were currently the only guests at the inn — but they couldn’t have taken James from his side without him knowing... could they? Q shook his head to clear it. That was nonsense, this wasn’t some silly horror story, isolated spot in the Black Forest notwithstanding. But then what — he hadn’t quite finished the thought when a heavy hand grabbed his neck from behind and started squeezing. Q, still sluggish not just from sleep — had there been something in their wine, after all? — flailed for a moment before gathering his wits about him and starting to fight back, but a second hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. He thrashed and fought to loosen the hands’ hold on him, but his attacker was too strong; the elbow Q rammed into his gut, the kicks he aimed at his shins didn’t seem to faze him. The pressure on Q’s windpipe increased... black spots started clouding his vision...

 

“Q! Q, for goodness’ sake, wake up!”

Finally, James got through the fog of Q’s apparent nightmare, shaking his shoulders and calling his name. Q’s eyes opened wide, his hands stopped scrabbling at his own neck, and he started taking in huge gulps of air.

“Q! What the hell was that?” James demanded even as he stroked Q’s hair back from his forehead gently. Q’s eyes flashed to him, James could see how wide they were in the strips of moonlight coming in through the curtained window. Q’s gaze flickered towards the only source of light and he flinched. “Q, talk to me.”

“James,” the Quartermaster finally spoke, “you were... you were gone and I heard something in the hall and then... no, no, it’s silly...”

“Tell me.”

“Someone grabbed me from behind and started strangling me.”

“What a lovely dream,” James tried for sarcastic.

“No, James, no. It was... so real. I’ve had nightmares before, but this... this was something else.”

“Q, there’s no-one here who might try to strangle you. The MP you bugged last month is still in Westminster.”

“Don’t patronise me, Bond.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

Q sat up and stared at the window again. “There was no moon in my dream.”

*

The remainder of the night passed without incident, Q sleeping safely with James at his side and the gun under the pillow (he checked before going to sleep again). The next morning, they went down to breakfast and found the little boy, Albert, playing with a large German Shepherd in the lobby. The dog was nearly twice the size of the boy, but gentle and calm in his movements even when the boy tugged at his ears.

Them being the only guests, they ordered their breakfast from a small, but varied selection. James’ scrambled eggs were just right, and he thanked Mark, the cook, when he came from the kitchen to bring them a fresh pot of coffee. Mark, the old woman had explained in her stilted English, was mute after being attacked by a wolf as a child; the bite to his neck had cost him his vocal cords, though not his life. The young man smiled and gave them both a thumbs-up before going back to the kitchen.

Q sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. It was ridiculous to think that this quiet place with its friendly inhabitants should have scared him so in his dream.

*

He went to bed with a slight feeling of trepidation; but that night, James and he were both awake enough to do a little more than just killing the lights and going to sleep. They had used the day to take a walk through the forest, along the few paths that existed around the inn; and Q had marvelled at the way the forest seemed to swallow all noise and sound beyond the movement of animals through the undergrowth and the stirring of the birds. There had been no wind rustling the leaves.

Sated and breathing deeply, Q rested against James’ side as he drifted off, moonlight on his pillow.

*

They both were woken by a terrible scream.

The first thing Q did was check the window — moonlight was streaming through it. James was already checking his gun before grabbing their clothes. “Quick. I think this one is real,” he whispered. There were people moving in the hall and downstairs now, and they could hear the old woman cry out in distress.

What they found when they arrived downstairs made them stop dead in their tracks. In the lobby, there was the dog from the previous morning, its teeth bared, growling at them like a ferocious beast; and James’ hand started twitching for the gun in the waistband of his trousers when he realised that its muzzle was red with blood. Looking around for a dead animal, Q’s eyes eventually found the doorway to the breakfast room; and all he could see, lying on the floor and protruding into the hall, were the skinny legs of the boy, Albert.

Rounding the corner, he also saw the blood and the broken tissue, and that there was nothing to be done. The dog had practically ripped the boy’s neck apart and gnawed his face off. Q felt bile rise in his throat, but he knelt down next to the old woman to try and calm her frantic sobbing. At that moment, Mark came in from outside, carrying a hunting rifle.

The dog started to bark and advance on the cook, his blood-red jaw snapping forcefully. Mark jumped back and aimed the rifle; but his hands were shaking. Only then did James realise that the young man was crying. He decided to make it easier on him and pulled out his gun. He killed the dog with a bullet to the head, then beckoned for Mark to hand him the rifle. He took it, aimed again, and fired right into the first wound. At Mark’s incredulous look, he shrugged.

“Dann müssen wir meine Pistolenkugel nicht erklären. Ich wollte nur sicher gehen, dass der erste Schuss tödlich ist.”

*

“James, something is not right with this place.”

“Now he tells me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. If you were disconcerted at the use of German without me offering translations — that’s exactly what Gothic fiction does. Disconcert you. ;)


	46. #46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “Q, being a quiet patient thing he is, keeps getting quips about how Bond is horribly difficult to work with, breaking hi-tech toys and improvising during the missions. So one day he breaks into a glorious rant to get some respect for his very own double-oh. Bonus points for Q standing up to new M and/or nonplussed James overhearing it (Q forgot to turn off the comms in his rage maybe?)”
> 
> I know, don’t tell me. It’s been ages, and I’m sorry! Wrote this while listening to OK Go’s _Invincible_. It seemed appropriate.

“God, this is the fifth he’s broken in a row!” Technicians from Ordnance and Explosives.

“Is he completely fucking mad?! We don’t have limitless funds, you realise that, don’t you?” Accountants.

“That’s not part of the mission trajectory! Call your dog off, Mallory, the man clearly doesn’t know his limits!” Why did they ever let anyone from the CIA in on these things that wasn’t Felix Leiter?

Q tapped his index finger against the return key without pressing down, this close to sicking a virus or two on the mouthy lot sitting at their desks four floors up from the geek squad just for the hell of it. The door sliding open and Mallory’s — M’s — voice ringing out calmly over the din interrupted his sinister musings.

“Anything new, Q? Besides the unsurprising fact that 007 has a problem with following orders and procedures, I mean.”

Q turned to glare at M, but halted when he realised that the man’s expression was bemused rather than seriously annoyed, which made a lovely change from what the Quartermaster had been hearing the past few weeks, months. Vitriol, condescension, and frustration all mixed into one bitter tone of resentment, clawing at Q’s nerves and calm facade.

“Nothing, sir,” he averted the course of whatever words may have had flung himself off the roof of his mouth. “007 has cleared the way into the facility, but he needs to wait for the next guard change to make a move.”

“Assuming he doesn’t just shoot everything to hell first because he’s bored,” came a muttered comment from a few rows back. Q felt his shoulders tense and his jaw tick. Not his lot, too. M beat him to it, though.

“I’m sure any opinions you might have can wait until after the mission.”

A beat.

“I’m sorry, sir. Boss.”

Q’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. He could understand frustration when it came to James Bond, could understand it very well. What he couldn’t understand was the blatant ignorance so many — especially higher-ups, excluding, perhaps, Mallory — displayed in the face of everything that James so conveniently sacrificed so they could sleep at night.

All of this really came to a head two weeks after that.

Chiefs of Staff from the CIA, NSA, MI6, and the White House were all squished into Q-Branch, along with M, the Minister of Defence and a representative of the Royal Navy or six. They were all watching the huge screens while Q’s fingers were flying over two keyboards at the same time, manning four screens and a tablet propped up against his mug.

And James was deviating from the script. Of course he was.

“Is the man deranged?” rang up the first outraged exclamation.

“That wasn’t the plan!”

 _Yes, thank you, we can all see that._ Q bit his lip and kept typing, doing his best to keep up with the change of plans and help Bond take out as many targets as possible while trying to get at the main event: the arms deal happening about five yards away from him. He shot a quick look at Mallory, the man standing perfectly still, following 007’s tactical movements with his brow furrowed, realisation dawning on his face.

An hour later, the weapons were secured and the arms dealers in custody, and Q was cracking his knuckles with a small sigh.

“Mallory, I want you to retire 007,” the Minister of Defence suddenly spoke up. “He endangered the entire mission with criminal disregard for his orders. National security can’t afford to have him tearing through the world, leaving this kind of trail in his wake. Cut him loose.”

This time, M wasn’t fast enough for the Quartermaster.

“Are you out of your mind?” He was nearly surprised at the vehemence in his voice, the force behind those words as he articulated them very, very clearly. Nearly everyone in the room turned to him with perplexed expressions on their faces. (It would’ve been funny if Q hadn’t been so pissed off.) “You do realise what he’s just done, don’t you?” He continued, his tone picking up momentum, voice getting louder. “He did all of that on his own, without any input from us, from me. The only thing he needed from me was a quick description of the postings of the mercenaries. He didn’t know enough about the lay of the land to have prepared this, he altered the strategy _on the spot_ and without access to our conveniently streaming satellite footage.” Q pointed a damning finger at the screens mounted to the wall. “We had to catch up with him, _I_ nearly couldn’t predict what he was going to do until shortly before he did it, and I’m sure that that goes for most people in this room.” His eyes flickered to M briefly before he continued, well on the way to talking himself into a good, proper rage. “He took what we sent him in with, which was good, but not good enough, and made it into something that _worked_. Show me a brilliant tactician like that, with the physical ability to pull an op like this _by himself_ , and, please, do tell me why you don’t want him on your side even though he just saved a lot of lives, including yours. But do we thank him?” Q threw up his hands, eyebrows climbing up into his chaotic fringe, sarcasm settling into his tone like James into an Aston Martin. “No, why would we, he deviated from his initial orders which turned out to be ill-suited to the actual situation he encountered! Such a man cannot possibly work for her Majesty’s Secret Service, the one place in England where the paperclips are as well protected as the Semtex!”

Needless to say, the stares he was getting were both unnerving and gratifying. He caught Mallory’s eye, who... was he _smiling_?

Q blinked.

Oh, fuck, he was in so much trouble.

“Q, I didn’t know you cared,” came a unexpected voice (bewildered and coloured with enough rough honesty to cast serious doubt on James' oft-praised unflappability in the face of a blown cover) over the speakers, and Q’s eyes bugged out as he realised that he hadn’t muted the comms before going off on his rant. Oh, _fuck_.


	47. #47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “They're snowed in/stranded. Cue grumbling and snuggling. :D”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding.”

“‘fraid not.”

“And Rosa the famed fortune teller couldn’t foresee this?”

“That’s quite enough of the sarcasm, 007.”

“Oh, is it?!”

“James!”

“Fine. Keep digging.”

*

By the time they had dug their way from the annex to the main building of the mansion, they were covered in excess snow and even Bond’s muscles were burning with the exertion.

“Whoever had this brilliant idea—”

“Wasn’t me!”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Yes, well, just so you know. Wasn’t me.”

Bond suppressed a sigh and, once they had closed the thick, wooden door against the masses of tiny ice crystals outside, started to tear at the laces of his boots irritably. Warm socks or no, his toes were numb and his ankles swollen.

“You might as well tell me, you know.”

Q hesitated. “Only if you tell me what you’re planning on doing to them.”

“Why? D’you like them?”

The Quartermaster rolled his eyes and began digging through his own layers of clothes. Now that they were inside again, the warmth quickly became stifling, and the sweat collecting underneath the fabric made him feel particularly gross. “I am rather fond of them continuing to do their job without limbs or internal organs missing, yes.”

Bond straightened and leaned against the wall, flexing his toes, while fumbling with the zipper of his coat. “It was M, wasn’t it?” He shot Q a look, who tried to keep his face impassive.

“I’m not certain it was, actually—”

“Q...”

“Yes, it was M’s idea. Nothing on the monitors suggested this kind of snow storm heading our way! And we did get the mission done, so I don’t know what your problem is,” Q countered while peeling his jacket off of himself and hanging it up on the rack next to the door.

Bond breathed carefully through his nose. “My _problem_ is the comms cutting out. My _problem_ is us finishing the job and then passing out from exhaustion before pulling the extraction forward. My _problem_ is us getting snowed in up to our necks while sitting in a dead drug kingpin’s mansion with no satellite connection to the weather channel!” He’d finally wrestled himself out of his anorak and threw it into the corner behind the ornate hatstand.

Q gave him a few seconds. “Finished?”

Bond shook his head, then shrugged. “Close enough.”

“We should go find the kitchen, I’m starving.”

“I’m pretty sure we shot the cook,” James said with a trace of sheepish humour in his voice, his eyes cutting to Q’s.

Q decided to take it for the apology it was and play along. “Hm. Whatever did we do that for?” he asked, then began unlacing his shoes.

Bond shrugged. “I suspect him pointing an AK-47 at me had something to do with your decision.”

“Ah, that.”

*

An hour later, they had a decent fire going in the grate in the drawing room and a veritable mountain of food in front of them, of which they had already consumed about a quarter just walking to and fro between there and the kitchen and the pantry (which was still very well stocked, they had barely made a dent). James returned from the linen closet with two more blankets and threw one at Q’s head before settling down next to him on the sofa. They arranged the extra blankets until they were tucked in properly and entirely. Reaching for his mug of tea, Q smiled when he felt James’ arm reach around his shoulders and pull him back in. He scooted closer and downwards a bit to fit his lean frame underneath James’ arm. The agent shifted a little so he could rest his stubbled cheek against Q’s mop of hair.

“Not so bad, is it?”

“Shut up.”


	48. #48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by [Inkie](http://countermeasures.tumblr.com) on tumblr: “Here goes, here is the prompt. Can you write how James is dealing with M's death? Basically what happened between the scene in the chapel and him being on the roof of MI6? Clearly she was a surrogate mother for him, she practically raised him, and he was the one who came up with the plan to use her as bait. He feels he is the reason she died and he has to deal with it before being able to see Mallory as the new M. (Seriously, I did not see that one coming!)"
> 
> Lyrics: The National -- Anyone's Ghost

Bond did not remember getting up, the steady hand of Kincaid pulling him up. Away from her prone figure on the floor, Silva’s body just behind them.

“No,” he rasped, turning. “I won’t leave her here.”

Kincaid said nothing as he went back to her, crouched down on the floor and gathered her into his arms.

“Silva can rot here for all I care, but I won’t leave her alone with him.” He wasn’t talking to Kincaid, or to anyone, really. He didn’t know if the comms were still active, if they had survived his close encounter in the deep, icy water of the moor. He didn’t particularly care. Standing slowly and with aching knees and back, he turned back to Kincaid. “Get us out of here.”

Carefully and painstakingly slowly, they made progress from the chapel across the moor. That was how MI6 found them — the field agents deployed for extraction stopped short when they saw Bond. Carrying her. His face a mask of nothing — nothing to tell, nothing to ask of. They pretended they didn’t see the tracks his tears had left in the grime and dirt on the skin of his cheeks. Hands took her from him, settled her body onto a gurney. Someone else handed him a secure satellite phone before his arms could even drop to his side.

“007? It’s Tanner. The team has orders to get you back to London for a quick debrief. I promise we won’t keep you too long, but… we need to know how you are. If you’re still with us.”

“Just get me out.”

“We will. James, I’m so sorry.”

Bond terminated the call.

“And what about me?” Kincaid asked from the side. Bond sought the eyes of the team leader, who nodded.

“We’ll go back to the estate, see what can be done. There’s enough room for one more passenger.”

At the doors to the new digs, Bond was met with Tanner, Eve, and Mallory. Q was hanging back behind them, visibly desperate not to fiddle with his glasses. Directly across from Bond stood Mallory, their appearances comically fitting. Bond, his clothes torn and stained with mud, his face smeared with soot and shrapnel scratches, and opposite him a man in his shirtsleeves with one sleeve missing, his arm in a sling, blood drying on his collar. They kept their faces impassive, while Eve and Tanner wore matching expressions of more obvious concern and the early grasp of grieving. Next to him, Kincaid looked mainly bewildered.

“Let’s get it over with.” Bond pushed past Mallory, past Eve and Tanner, past Q who nearly choked on nothing but thin air.

“Let’s get it over with,” Mallory echoed quietly and followed him to the office.

The work floor fell silent as Bond made his way through the rows towards the stairs at the end of the long bunker hall. Eyes lowered in deference, others remained fixed on him. He stared straight ahead. Behind him, Mallory carefully motioned for everyone to get back to work as they passed. Out from the string of desks, someone stepped towards Kincaid at Mallory’s signal, intercepting him, offering him a cup of tea. Bond didn’t have the mind to scoff.

_You said I came close_  
 _As anyone's come_  
 _To live underwater  
_ _For more than a month_

_You said it was not inside my heart, it was  
_ _You said it should tear a kid apart, it does_

Hours later, he arrived at the hotel room he had hastily booked into after coming back. Someone at the office had arranged for a couple of boxes to be hauled out of storage, boxes neatly labelled, ‘Personal Items — James Bond — 007.’ He walked straight past them and practically fell onto the sofa. His eyes wandered to the mini bar in the corner, as if drawn by a magnet, but he was too tired to get up.

Numbness had settled somewhere in his gut. It was dulling his senses, his movements, even his thoughts. So he just sat there. Too tired to even drink himself to death, something he hadn’t been having problems with before.

He should have drowned that day.

He didn’t go to sleep, but didn’t move, either. Just remained there, on the sofa, staring at nothing, slipping in and out of awareness. Clothes starting to reek of damp and moory water, blood drying in his hair and on his hands, he stayed.

As he sat there, agents were prowling the perimeter of Skyfall, putting out the flames and taking care of those of Silva’s lackeys who yet lived. They would discover the traitor in the chapel, another helicopter would come and bear him away. Bond didn’t want to know where. There would be no funeral. He already had one to go to. Or perhaps not.

Bond imagined stepping up to her children and expressing his condolences. How sorry he was. Sorry for their loss. For his. For not protecting her, for failing her, for using her as bait to draw out a man he should have shot and killed on sight. Except he’d missed.

He should have died long ago. He shouldn’t have been her last chance. He was nothing but a ghost come back to haunt her.

_Didn't want to be your ghost_  
 _Didn't want to be anyone's ghost_  
 _Didn't want to be your ghost  
_ _Didn't want to be anyone's ghost_

Bond didn’t dream of Hamlet’s ghosts that night, when he finally did sleep. He didn’t need to see a ghost to feel the weight of what he’d done. Didn’t believe in them, anyway.

The maid found him sitting on the sofa, still staring holes into the air. Whispered something that sounded like a prayer, softly touched his shoulder, as if expecting him to drop to the side, lifeless.

“Sir? D’you want me to come back later?”

Bond’s bloodshot eyes didn’t waver from where they were fixed on the window. “How about tomorrow.”

“Alright, sir.”

Moments later, she was gone.

Bond got up to take a shower. Standing under the scalding spray, he finally broke down and cried, choking on his own sobbing breaths and the water that he inhaled when he lost control of his breathing and hyperventilated. Shaking, he grabbed the thermostat and twisted the handles, twisted until the water was ice cold, the way he remembered it. Istanbul. Skyfall. And yet, here he was, alive, when she was long gone.

Sliding down, back pressed against the tiled wall, Bond ended up on the floor, shaking. His hand pressed against his mouth to stifle the sounds he was making, he focused on getting air into his lungs, blinking when water ran into his eyes, eyes burning from the strain.

He couldn't tell how long it was before he reached up to turn off the shower, before he hauled his shivering frame upright, nearly slipping.

How easy it would be to break his own neck like that, with a snap and a thud.

In front of the mirror, he kept his eyes on his hands. Towelling himself off, he rubbed the fabric over the scratches and bruises until his skin burnt, bled in places.

He didn't need to believe in ghosts to see her face next to his when he raised his head. Raising his fist to shatter the glass of the mirror, seven years of luck be damned, Bond turned away from her intelligent eyes that had always seen right through him.

Moments before he could make good on the threat, the phone rang.

_But I don't want anybody else_  
 _I don't want anybody else_  
 _I don't want anybody else  
_ _I don't want anybody else_

“Bond, it’s Mallory. We are going to release her body to her family this afternoon, who will arrange for the funeral themselves. I was wondering if you’d like to see her.”

“No.” He hung up. Naked as he was, he knocked back two sleeping pills with a finger of Scotch, then went to bed, depositing the bottle, a glass, and the small container of pills on the nightstand. The world couldn’t fade to black fast enough.

_I had a hole in the middle_  
 _Where the lightning went through it_  
 _Told my friends not to worry_  
 _I had a hole in the middle_  
 _Someone's sideshow wouldn't do it  
_ _I told my friends not to worry_

A week passed without Bond being aware of much of anything, except when he ordered room service mostly appropriate to the time of day he assumed it to be. He left most of it untouched. Once, when he was marginally conscious, he felt two fingers pressed against his neck, undoubtedly feeling for a pulse. His left hand didn’t go for the weapon underneath the other pillow. He would’ve missed, anyway.

 

The next day, another call.

“Mallory wants to know if you’re dealing with it, James,” Tanner’s voice came over the ether, plainly pleading now. Bond was fairly sure it had been either him or Eve who had checked his vital signs.

“How am I supposed to be dealing with it, Bill? The same way I dealt with being left for dead?”

“James —”

“Worry about getting Mallory up to the task. Don’t worry about me.”

“Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

 

Another week later, there was a knock on the door. Bond dragged himself out of bed, still sluggish, only wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms. Opening the door, he found himself face to face with an immaculately dressed head of MI6, left arm still in a sling. Underneath the other, he was carrying a laptop.

“We need you to write the obituary.”

“Why me?”

Mallory pushed past him into the room. “Because she wrote yours. It’s the least you can do.”

“I came back from the dead.” He knew she wouldn’t.

Mallory’s perceptive eyes narrowed.

“It wasn’t a fair trade,” Bond muttered, then pushed the door closed behind him and followed a silent Mallory into the living room.

While Bond sat on the sofa and typed, then backspaced, then typed again, Mallory swiped the bottle of Scotch from the bedstand. Pouring himself a glass and effectively finishing the bottle, he sat across from Bond in the armchair. “Should I order another?”

“No.”

When he left, Mallory took the pills, too. At the door, he turned. “We need you back.”

Bond nodded.

 

The next day, he opened the door to Q, holding bags that were, judging by the smell, filled with Chinese takeout.

“How did you smuggle those in here?”

“By taking the servants’ entrance. Will you let me in?”

“Will you go away unless I do?”

“Quite unlikely.”

Bond stepped aside.

They ate in silence until, halfway through, Bond had enough.

“Aren’t you going to lecture me that it wasn’t my fault?”

“You’re just spoiling for a fight, 007.”

“Excuse me?”

“You want to take this room apart, be my guest. It’s going on your bill. Trash the furniture, smash a window, punch the walls. Go ahead.” Bond just stared at him, waiting him out. “Or, you can come back to work and throw everything you’re feeling right now into the clean-up of Silva’s organisation. It’s mindless destruction either way, with you.” Q went back to his chicken.

Ten minutes later, he laid a hand between Bond’s shoulder blades as the agent violently retched into the toilet.

Feeling the warmth of his hand through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, Bond heaved a breath to speak. “Did you poison me?”

“There’s enough of that in you already,” Q quipped and pressed a damp, warm towel into his hands. “Clean yourself up, I’ll wait down the hall. And when you come out, I want an answer.”

 

Three days later, Eve found him on the roof above Whitehall.

 

In his nightmares, she still died.


	49. #49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by a reader here on AO3 (if you recognise this as your prompt, please drop me a line in the comments!): “The truth is, Q recruited for MI6 to get revenge. He is Vesper Lynd's baby brother. He thinks Bond is the main reason of his sister's death. Yet, he hasn't expected that Bond would fall for him, truthfully, and so does he. Angst, a lot of, but Happy Ending please!”
> 
> Lyrics: Chris Cornell — You Know My Name. Couldn’t resist.

_If you take a life, do you know what you'll give?_

_Odds are, you won't like what it is_   
_When the storm arrives, would you be seen with me_   
_By the merciless eyes of deceit?_

So long, he had been biding his time. Erasing all evidence of his family from his own records, getting into MI6, rising through the ranks. He’d known it would be years before he reached his goal, but then again, he hadn’t made definitive plans. In the end, he hadn’t anticipated getting so close to the object of his obsession so quickly.

From one moment to the next, his idea of gathering enough information until he could get close enough and then finish his mission without leaving any trace transformed into an exquisite game of cat and mouse.

He had the chance to get close to him, to gain his trust, to look him in the eye, joke with him, and know what he had done. And then, to kill him and savour the look of betrayal on his face, the same betrayal he had once dealt out to someone Q had loved — his sister. Vesper Lynd.

One thing was for certain: James Bond would die. And he would pull the trigger.

 _I've seen angels fall from blinding heights_   
_But you yourself are nothing so divine_   
_Just next in line_

‘Q.’ He’d hated the name, at first, before coming to accept it as a necessary inconvenience. Eradicating his past, taking away his name. He had changed his surname long ago, had purged the name Lynd from his life, groped back into the distant past of his family to pluck another name from the hat, one that would still remind him of who he was, but wouldn’t ring any alarm bells. Emerson Lynd may have died nine years ago, but his burning hatred of the service hadn’t.

They’d killed her. His big sister, who he’d loved as only a little brother trailing after her during the summer holidays could. He’d been so proud when she’d gone to work for the Treasury. Never once had he worried that it might put her into danger — until Quantum had abducted her boyfriend. After that, contact with her family had as good as ceased. In the end, it had taken about a month to lose her. Q had failed to reach her phone the day before she left for Montenegro. Mere weeks later, she had died in the ruins of Venice.

When Q had gone to her apartment to take care of her personal things, he’d found it empty, stripped bare. A week later, government officials came to see his family. Well, officials — their business was very much unofficial. Q didn’t have to look twice to understand they were MI6, cleaning up their own mess.

A long time ago, he had promised Vesper to put his hacking skills to good use.

So he did.

From his one-bedroom flat in London, he wormed his way into the case files, read page upon page until his eyes burnt and he finally found what he’d come for. Someone to blame.

 _Arm yourself, because no-one else here will save you_   
_The odds will betray you_   
_And I will replace you_   
_You can't deny the prize, it may never fulfill you_   
_It longs to kill you_   
_Are you willing to die?_

On his first mission with the man, Bond lost someone else he claimed to love. At his desk, Q stood, trembling, whispering an apology that would go unheard.

 _The coldest blood runs through my veins_   
_You know my name_

It was funny, the way Bond stared at his arse as he walked away from him at the National Gallery. So they played. Q took sick pleasure in the knowledge that, one day, the man who was now standing behind him, practically guarding his flank as Mallory argued with the director of the CIA and the Defense Minister will be kneeling before him, staring into the barrel of one of Q’s manufactured guns, awaiting his sentence.

As he left, Bond brushed his hand along Q’s shoulder.

He’d never see it coming.

 _If you come inside, things will not be the same_   
_When you return to the night_   
_And if you think you've won, you never saw me change_   
_The game that we have been playing_

While he engaged Bond in his mind games, his futile flirtations, he was focused on his goal, shaping his smugness into a smirk as he bantered with the agent. It would be so easy to get close to him now — Bond played without a cover at home. It was obvious he liked Q, liked him very much, and it would serve to make his retribution that much more powerful. He asked himself what on earth Vesper could have seen in him — how she could have loved him enough to die for him. What was it with the people James Bond drew to him, only to burn them alive? Watching from Q Branch, he stood at his desk for days on end as, one by one, people willingly gave their lives for 007, watched as they loved him, loathed him, helped him no matter what he asked of them. After a particularly close call in Hong Kong, Q slumped against the desk, taking a deep breath. He needed him alive, James Bond was his to destroy.

That was what he told himself every time he saved his sorry arse.

_I've seen diamonds cut through harder men_   
_Than you yourself_   
_But if you must pretend_   
_You may meet your end_

The perfect opportunity presented itself when Bond got back from a three-month mission in the Middle East. Dark circles under his eyes, smudges of dirt still high on his cheeks and his neck, he trotted down towards Q.

“Here.” He presented him with what was left of his gear: his Walther, this time, his watch, a few enhanced knives, and, surprisingly, most of the computer and communication equipment. “Did my best, this time,” the agent managed to smirk, and Q rolled his eyes.

“I’d really appreciate it if these occasions didn’t warrant a red mark in my calendar, 007.”

Bond leaned against the desk, smiling faintly. “I missed you, too, Q.”

“Very funny. Go, clean yourself up. I’m not going to let you track mud all over my floors.”

“Then I suggest you don’t let me move around.”

Oh, good grief. He knew that tone of voice, had heard it so many times over the comms — and now it was bloody well purring into his ear. Turning sharply, he glared at the agent.

“You have got to be joking. Get out.”

Bond pulled his best, innocent, ‘who, me?’ face.

“Yes, you. Now go.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Bond...”

“I’d much rather stay here. Three months of not seeing you is too long, you know.” The teasing tone had shifted into something decidedly too earnest, a deep rumble that Q had been hearing increasingly more often recently, especially during Bond’s time away. Q didn’t have to look at him again to know the look on his face.

“Don’t pout, 007, it’s very unbecoming.”

“I’ll stop if you agree to join me for dinner tomorrow night.”

Q bristled on the outside, but grimly rejoiced inside his head. “Fine. But only to get you to shut up.”

The smile lighting up Bond’s face was ridiculous. Still, Q found himself smiling in return.

 _Try to hide your hand, forget how to feel_   
_Life is gone with just a spin of the wheel_

After a pleasant dinner at a reasonably high-priced restaurant, Bond insisted on driving Q home to his new, two-bedroom flat. Once there, he didn’t waste a lot of time inviting himself in for a cup of coffee — Q let him. In his kitchen, he made coffee and contemplated the unregistered gun in his cutlery drawer when something cold pressed into the back of his neck. The unmistakable click of the safety being removed echoed through the small space.

“I know who you really are, Emerson. Have known ever since you sat down next to me at the Gallery. Now, why don’t you tell me why you haven’t killed me yet?”

 _It longs to kill you_   
_Are you willing to die?_

Q whirled around on his heels. Bond, clearly not thinking he’d be that reckless, hesitated; a moment that Q used to his advantage. He knocked Bond’s wrist aside with his left arm, landed two punches to his cheek with his right, and then yanked the drawer at his hip open.

Three seconds later, they were standing across from each other between the kitchen counters, guns squarely pointed at each other’s faces.

“Who’s going to blink first?” Q asked, acid in his voice.

 _The coldest blood runs through my veins_   
_You know my name_

Bond’s eyes remained calm, patient. “I don’t want to kill you. Please, don’t make me hurt you.”

“I bet that’s what you said to my sister as well,” Q hissed.

“I never had to aim a gun at her head.”

“And yet, you killed her.”

“Three years ago, I would have agreed with you. But the truth is, I had no idea what she was going to do! I nearly drowned trying to get her out, and there were times I wished I had. Vesper died for me, Q, and I will regret that as long as I live, but I didn’t kill her. Quantum did.” The calm mask was slipping now and Bond clenched his jaw. “It’s been three years, Q. Three years I’ve been watching you, waiting for the other shoe to drop, all the while getting closer and closer until it was too late to run. And I’m sick of it. I don’t want this.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you. Just you.”

Q scoffed. “Don’t try to play me like one of your toys, Bond.”

“I’m not. I know that you know I still visit your sister’s grave every year. You know me. You know what happens when someone close to me dies. I know you want to blame me, because it’s so much easier. I spent months blaming myself. But I got my revenge, and I got it for you, too. This grief that you’re holding on to? It’s mine, too. It’s _ours_.

“This is not all we are, not anymore, not to each other. It may have started out as a game, but I stopped playing a long time ago. And I think you did, too.”

His eyes widening, Q watched as Bond put the safety on his gun back on, then put it on the counter and slid it away from himself.

“Kiss me or shoot me, it’s entirely up to you.”

Q stared at Bond. This was what his sister had seen. It was what he’d seen every day for the past three years, what had made it so easy to “play along,” to think he’d been fooling the man who killed his sister when the only person he’d been fooling was himself.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered the gun, clicking the safety back into place. He put it back in the drawer and pushed it shut.

“I never knew how much of it was real,” he said quietly.

James shook his head. “Just enough.” Carefully, he stepped closer, into Q’s space, raising his arms. Folding the younger man into an embrace, he kissed his temple.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

Q pressed closer into James’s body. “I’m sorry you lost her.”


	50. #50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your point, 007?”
> 
> “It’s a trap, Q. Question is, for who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by an anon on tumblr: “Do you think you could write a story where Bond is used as bait to get to Q? And Bond is trying to keep Q away and Q is all ‘forget that, it's my turn to save you’”
> 
> Lyrics nicked from The Everlove’s _Cities in Dust_ , simply because it made a great ‘Q is wreaking havoc and destroying shit’ soundtrack.

“Two down, one warehouse left to go.”

“Right there with you, 007,” replied Q to the voice in his ear accompanied by residual static and the eerie stillness of industrial compounds at night.

“No movement so far, same as the other two.”

Q tracked the agent’s GPS signature into the possibly only seemingly abandoned building, down the first corridor.

“Nothing. Q?”

“What?”

“Why’s there nothing here? Bad intel?”

Q’s fingers momentarily stilled over his keyboard. “Is your bad feeling about this finally catching up with mine?”

“It’s just… if there’s something here, it’s too easy. If there’s nothing here, how could they have got it so wrong?”

“Your point, 007?”

“It’s a trap, Q. Question is, for who?”

Q was about to answer, to give Bond the order to clear out, now, when suddenly all hell broke loose. Gunfire careened through the speakers, intercut with Bond swearing and firing back. The sounds of rapid steps and more shots were the only thing Q could hear, then five long seconds of silence before Bond’s voice filled the void.

“Well, that answers that question. Trap’s for me.”

“Get out, now!”

“Can’t, there’s too many of them. They’re driving me deeper into the building.”

“Can you get to a window?”

“Barred. Breaking that open would take too long, and the noise would lead them right to me.” Bond’s voice was barely above a whisper now, it was a miracle the comms were still picking it up.

Q now heard the voices of Bond’s attackers over the mic, yelling angrily in… was that Latvian?

“They’re not even bothering to keep quiet, they know I know they’re coming.”

“I’ve got your precise location within the building now, presuming the floor plans are correct. There’s a corridor just to your left, go down there and you get to a disused ventilation shaft, crawl in there and —”

“Too late,” Bond interrupted him. More gunfire sounded until he could hear 007 cry out over the noise, a mix of rage and pain.

“Bond! James, are you hit?” The shooting had ceased, what Q heard instead were shuffling footsteps, the unmistakable sounds of Bond engaging in hand-to-hand combat, and another pained shout when, undoubtedly, his opponent stuck his finger in the wound. Literally. More voices, one with the clear authority of the one giving the orders. Then, seconds later, the line went dead.

“We’ve lost Bond’s signal, sir!”

“No kidding,” Q muttered to himself, still staring at the screen where the pulsing dot labelled ‘007’ had just blinked out of existence. He cut a sample of the audio recorded and ran voice recognition.

 _Water was running, children were running_   
_You were running out of time_   
_Under the mountain, a golden fountain_   
_Were you praying at the Lares shrine?_

“So what did Bond do to get on their bad side?” Mallory asked with the stoic concern of someone regularly worrying about 007 and his trail of disaster.

“It’s not so much what Bond did, sir.”

“Oh?”

“No, it’s… it’s what I did. Before coming to work for MI-6.”

 _But, oh, your city lies in dust, my friend_   
_Oh, your city lies in dust, my friend_

When Bond woke, his left shoulder was throbbing with pain and the onset of an infection nestling in around the frayed edges of a bulletwound. He tried to move, which only convinced him that he should never try that again, and that the projectile was still lodged deep in his flesh. He wiped his damp brow with his right hand and slowly, very slowly, worked to push himself up on his eyebrow. He felt sluggish, his head felt twice its normal size — no thanks to his ego, this time. Clearly, he’d been drugged. Judging by the state of his wound, whoever had taken him had kept him under for at least 24 hours. He tried shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, but the jerky movement only had him collapsing on his back again, pain soaring through his shoulder.

On a scale of 1 to 10, he’d give this business trip a 3, for terrible customer service.

On that thought, he passed out.

The next time he came to, a bright light was shining into his eyes. Instinctively, he tried to bring up his right hand to shield his eyes, but found it strapped to the rickety cot he was lying on.

“We’ve got something that belongs to you, Quartermaster,” a man snarled in accented English. Baltic… Lithuanian? Latvian? Q would know. Q. No.

“Give us back what you stole from us, and we’ll give you back your golden retriever agent. No tricks, Q. We know you’re with the government now, but don’t think you can outsource the delivery to them. You, no-one else, we’ll tell you where to be. If you give us what we want, plus interest, then maybe you can get your agent back. That is, if he lives that long.”

“No,” Bond breathed, turning his head back towards the light that was probably mounted on a camera pointed right at him.

“Oh, the agent has something to say?”

“No,” Bond repeated, forcing some life into his voice. “Q, no. ‘s not… worth it. No.”

“Aw, how sweet, trying to save his Quartermaster. You have 48 hours.”

The light vanished, and Bond’s consciousness followed with it.

 _We found you hiding, we found you lying_   
_Choking on the dirt and sand_   
_Your former glories and all the stories_   
_Dragged and washed with eager hands_

“They’ll start keeping him alive soon enough, they have to, otherwise he’s of no use to them.”

“That’s not how they work, Tanner. They’re perfectly happy letting me traipse after him only on the vague chance of him being still alive.”

Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Q turned to look out the window of Mallory’s office high above London. “Because they know we’re sentimental about him.”

_But, oh, your city lies in dust_   
_Oh, your city lies in dust, my friend_

“So what do we do?”

“We take the fight to them.”

 _Water was running, children were running_   
_We found you hiding, we found you lying_   
_Water was running, children were running_   
_We found you hiding, we found you lying_

After over three days without food or water, after over three days of a festering wound giving him fever, Bond was in no state to discern what was real and what was imagined. So when he woke and heard what sounded like raised, panicked voices and a gunshot, he believed them to be part of his delirium. He wasn’t even sure — had it been three days already? Had Q’s ultimatum run out yet?

‘Don’t save me,’ he thought. ‘Please don’t save me. Not against those odds.’

He slipped back into unconsciousness just as the door to his temporary cell sprung open.

MINUTES EARLIER

Q had been right to guess that James’ captors wouldn’t risk moving him to another location, so he wasn’t surprised that he was told to be at the warehouse they had taken him in 48 hours after getting the video message.

He came alone. He wasn’t wearing a wire, or any communications equipment. He had a gun strapped to his hip that they had let him keep with a laugh, a laugh that said that he’d never even get to fire it before they’d kill him. He had a hard drive full of money and the information he had once stolen from the mafia-like organisation — all their drugs and arms deals, all their snitches, all their members. It had been insurance, a safeguard against them coming back to haunt him for the money he’d taken. Money that, in the end, had not kept for himself, had never done that. The money had gone to charities, to shelters, to families that couldn’t feed their children. That was the “work” Q had been doing before MI-6 had found him and given him a choice — work for us, or learn how to build cupboards in prison. Q’s ideals hadn’t been to overthrow the government, his goal hadn’t been anarchy; he had simply considered working outside of the law the most suitable alternative to trying to change the government from within, especially for someone with his talents. In the end, his choice was a selfish one, because he was no noble Robin Hood. He was a kid with quick fingers, who had no aspirations of becoming the Quartermaster. He’d always figured he’d stay a low-level programmer, not to be trusted with the most sensitive of information.

Then, a bomb had torn apart their world, and suddenly he had been the best candidate for the job in an MI-6 that couldn’t trust anyone, anyway. M had called him into her temporary office in the bunker, had looked him in the eye, and had pronounced her decision.

‘I know who you are,’ she’d said, calm as anything. ‘Now prove to me that you know.’

Standing across from the organisation’s lieutenant, Mihails, on the ground floor of an abandoned warehouse in Romania, Q wondered if this who he was

He had a hard drive full of money and intel. The door behind him had been closed and locked with chains around the bolt.

“Do you have what we want?”

“Is he still alive?”

“Just barely. I ask again, do you have what we want?”

Q held up the hard drive. “I have this. And I wrote a bit of code, just for you.”

“Yeah? And what does that bit of code do?”

Q slowly reached up with his right hand, fingers obviously poised to adjust his glasses that were slipping down his nose. “This.”

The trouble with making a warehouse look abandoned was that you couldn’t just leave all those cars your flying monkeys drove there in standing outside. So you put them inside, where satellites couldn’t see them. But even inside, Quartermasters still could, once they knew they must be there.

They could find records of the cars’ purchase. They could find the serial numbers of their GPS transmitters, they could activate or deactivate them, they could hack into the navigational system, they could hijack the cars’ computer systems all the way from the UK, they could use their sensors and cameras built in to help them park to help them adjust their course to follow moving targets.

They could key them to go wherever they wanted.

Panic broke out when twenty SUVs suddenly developed minds of their own and started mowing down their former passengers. Q drew his gun and trained it on the lead negotiator before the perplexed man got to his own.

“You should never have let me keep that,” he said, shaking his head. “Now take me to him, or you’re next. I know a safe trajectory out of this room. Do you think you can find it?”

All around them, bullets started flying as the mobsters regained some sense and fired at the SUVs to try and slow them down — pity that the glass was bulletproof and the tires were reinforced to discourage exactly that kind of behaviour in others. A group of them started for the doors to try and unchain the bolt. They were crushed by three cars at once while they were still desperately scrabbling with the lock.

“And what will you do once you have him? Jump out of a window and drag him along?”

“Once I have him, I will burn this place to the ground with you in it.”

“And how are you going to do that? You are alone.”

“Let’s just say I did some research.”

They had arrived at what used to be a private office. There were no guards posted outside the room, which told Q exactly how far gone James probably was.

“Why, thank you,” he said softly. Then, before Mihails could utter another word or take a swing at him, Q shot him in the head. The fire would take him last, but it would know no better.

 _Hot and burning in your nostrils_   
_Pouring down your gaping mouth_   
_Your molten bodies a blanket of cinders_   
_Caught in the throes…_

Q’s research had yielded that when you dragged a delirious secrets agent out of a warehouse through the back door and then doubled back to fire some well-placed bullets into the fuel tanks of the cars you’d given some autonomy, the resulting explosions in the contained atmosphere of an abandoned-looking warehouse were a marvel.

 _But, oh, your city lies in dust, my friend_   
_Oh, your city lies in dust_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing.


End file.
